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BY EUGENE FIELD 


Second Hook of Tales. 

Songs and Other Verse. 

The holy Cross'and Otber Tales, 
The thouse. 

The Love Affairs of a Hibliomantac. 
A Little Hook of Profitable Tales. 
A Wittle Book of Western Verse, 


Second Book of Verse. 
Each, 1 vol., 16mo, $1.25. 


A Little Book of Profitable Tales. 
Cameo Edition with etched portrait. 16mo, $1.25. 


“Echoes from the Sabine Farm, 
4to, $2.00. 


With Trumpet and Drum. 
16m0, $1.00. 


Bove Songs of Childhood, 
16mo, $1,00, 


Second 


BOO heat A LES 





Hecond 


Peo Or TALES 


BY 


EUGENE FIELD 


NEW YORK 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
1896 


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The tales down to and including ‘*‘ The Werewolf” 
in this volume have been selected from those which 
remained unpublished in book form at the time of 
Mr. Field’s death. It was also thought desirable 
to take from ‘‘ Culture’s Garland,” and to incorpo- 
rate in this volume, such sketches as seemed most 
likely to prove of permanent value and ofinterest as 
illustrating Mr. Field’s earlier manner; and these, 
eight in number, form the latter part of the book. 





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PAGE 

HUMIN NATUR’ ON THE HAN’BUL ’ND ST. Jo. 3 
THE MOTHER IN PARADISE 15 
Mr. AND Mrs. BLossoM 23 
DEATH AND THE SOLDIER on ef 35 
THE *JININ’ FARMS  . ee a a ss 47 
THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS 63 
@THE CHILD’s LETTER. . 71 
THE SINGER MOTHER . St 
LPHE Two WIvEs 93 
THE WoOoING OF MIss Worrrr . 99 
THE TALISMAN 163 
GEORGE’S BIRTHDAY . 183 
SWEET-ONE- DARLING AND THE ‘Dream FAIRIES 201 
SWEET-ONE-DARLING AND THE MOON-GARDEN 215 
SAMUEL COWLES AND HIS HorsE ROYAL 229 
—_FHE WEREWOLF 243 
A MARVELLOUS INVENTION : 7-286 
THE STORY OF XANTHIPPE . 266 
Pema ANS ANTSGULTURE: 2... «+ « BFF 
MLLE. PRUD’HOMME’s BOOK . 283 
THE DEMAND FOR CONDENSED Music 288 
LEARNING AND LITERATURE . 292 
“DIE WALKURE”’ UND DER BoOMERANGELUNGE? 296 
Mare yiORKS OF SAPPHO ~~)... 304 


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HUMIN NATUR’ ON. THE HAN’BUL 
‘ND ST. JO. 


URIN’ war times the gorillas hed torn 
up most uv the cypress ties an’ used 
‘em for kindlin’ an’ stove wood, an’ the 
result wuz that when the war wuz over 
there wuz n’t anythink left uv the Han’bul 
‘nd St. Jo but the rollin’ stock ’nd the 
two streaks uv rails from one end uv the 
road to the other. Inthe spring uv ’67 I hed 
to go out into Kansas; and takin’ the Han’bul 
’nd St. Jo at Palmyry Junction, I wuz n’t long 
in findin’ out that the Han’bul ’nd St. Jo rail- 
road wuz jist about the wust cast of rollin’ 
prairer I ever struck. 

There wuz one bunk left when I boarded 
the sleepin’-car, and I hed presence uv mind 
‘nuff to ketch on to it. It wuz then just 
about dusk, an’ the nigger that sort uv run 
things in the car sez to me: ‘‘ Boss,” sez he, 


3 


SECOND BOOK 


‘Tl have to get you to please not to snore 
to-night, but to be uncommon quiet.” 

‘What for?” sez I.‘ Hain’t I paid my 
two dollars, an’ hain’t I entitled to all the 
luxuries uv the outfit ?” 

Then the nigger leant over an’ told me that 
Colonel Elijah Gates, one uv the directors uv 
the road,an’ the richest manin Marion County, 
wuz aboard, an’ it wuz one uv the rules uv 
the company not to do anythink to bother 
him or get him to sell his stock. 

The nigger pointed out Colonel Gates, 
‘nd I took a look at him as he sot readin’ 
the ‘‘Palmyry Spectator.” He wuz one of 
our kind uv people — long, raw-boned, ’nd 
husky. He looked to be about sixty — may 
be not quite on to sixty. He wuz n't both- 
ered with much hair onto his head, ’nd his 
beard was shaved, all except two rims or 
fringes uv it that ran down the sides uv his 
face ’nd metunderneathhis chin. This fringe 
filled up his neck so thet he did n't hev to 
wear no collar, ’nd he had n’t no jewelry 
about him excep’ a big carnelian bosom pin 
that hed the picture uv a woman’s head on 
it in white. His specs sot well down on his 


4 


OF TALES 


nose, ’nd I could see his blue eyes over ’em— 
small eyes, but kind ur good-natured. Be- 
tween his readin’ uv his paper ’nd his eatin’ 
plug terbacker he kep’ toler’ble busy till come 
bedtime. The rest on us kep’ as quiet as 
we could, for we knew it wuz an honor to 
ride in the same sleepin’-car with the richest 
man in Marion County ’nd a director uv the 
Han’bul ’nd St. Jo to boot. 

Along bout eight o’clock the colonel reck- 
oned he ’d tumble into bed. When he ’d 
drawed his boots ’nd hung up his coat ’nd 
laid in a fresh hunk uv nat’ral leaf, he crawled 
into the best bunk, ’nd presently we heerd 
him sleepin’. There wuz nuthin’ else for 
the rest uv us to do but to foller suit, ’nd 
we did. 

It must have been about an hour later — 
say along about Prairer City — that a woman 
come aboard with a baby. There war n't 
no bunk for her, but the nigger allowed that 
she might set back near the stove, for the 
baby ’peared to be kind ov sick-like, ’nd the 
woman looked like she had been cryin’. 
Whether it wuz the jouncin’ uv the car, or 
whether the young one wuz hungry or hed 


5 


SECOND BOOK 


a colic into it, | did n’t know, but anyhow the 
train had n’t pulled out uv Prairer City afore 
the baby began to take on. The nigger run 
back as fast as he could, ’nd told the young 
woman that she ’d have to keep that baby 
quiet because Colonel ‘Lijy Gates, one uv 
the directors uv the road, wuz in the car 'nd 
wunt be disturbed. The young woman 
caught up the baby scart-like, ’nd talked 
soothin’ to it, ’nd covered its little face with 
her shawl, ’nd done all them things thet wo- 
men do to make babies go to sleep. 

But the baby would cry, and, in spite of 
all the young woman ’nd the nigger could 
do, Colonel Elijah Gates heard the baby cry- 
in’, and sohe waked up. First his two blue 
yarn socks come through the curtains, ’nd 
then his long legs ’nd long body ’nd long 
face hove into sight. He come down the car 
to the young woman, ’nd looked at her over 
his specs. Did n’t seem to be the least bit 
mad; jest solemn ’nd bizness like. 

‘“My dear madam,” sez he to the young 
woman, ‘‘ you must do sumpin’ to keep that 
child quiet. These people have all paid for 
their bunks, ’nd they are entitled to a good 

0 


OF TALES 


night’s sleep. Of course I know how ’t is 
with young children— wll cry sometimes 
— have raised ’leven uv ’em myself, ndknow 
allabout’em. Butasa director uv the Han’- 
bul ’nd St. Jo I’ve got to pertect the rights 
of these other folks. So jist keep the baby 
quiet as you kin.” 

Now, there war n’t nothin’ cross in the 
colonel’s tone; the colonel wuz as kind ’nd 
consid’rit as could be expected uv a man 
who hed so much responsibility a-restin’ 
onto him. But the young woman was kind 
uv nervous, ’nd after the colonel went back 
‘nd got into his bunk the young woman 
sniffled and worrited and seemed like she had 
lost her wits, ’nd the baby kep’ cryin’ jist as 
hard as ever. 

Waal, there wuz n’t much sleepin’ to be 
done in that car, for what with the baby 
cryin’, ’nd the young woman a-sayin’, ‘‘ Oh, 
Meanie nd =ffOh, my! and the nigger 
a-prancin’ round like the widder bewitched 
—with all this goin’ on, sleep wuz out uv 
the question. Folks began to wake up ’nd 
put their heads outern their bunks to see 
what wuz the doggone matter. This made 


7 


SECOND BOOK 


things pleasanter for the young woman. 
The colonel stood it as long as he could, and 
then he got up a second time ’nd come down 
the car ’nd looked at the young woman over 
his specs. | 

‘“Now, as I wuz tellin’ you afore,” sez he, 
‘*T hain’t makin’ no complaint uv myself, 
for | ’ve raised a family of ‘leven children, ’nd 
I knowall about’em. But these other folks 
here in the car have paid for a good night’s 
sleep, ’nd it ’s my duty as a director uv the 
Han’bul ’nd St. Jo to see that they get it. 
Seems to me like you ought to be able to 
keep that child quiet — you can’t make me 
believe that there ’s any use for a child to be 
carryin’ on so. Sumpin ’s hurtin’ it—I 
know sumpin’s hurtin’ it by the way it 
cries. Now, you look’nd see if there ain’t 
a pin stickin’ into it somewhere; I’ve raised 
‘leven children, ’nd that ’s jist the way they 
used to cry when there wuz a pin stickin’ 
feiieg 

He reckoned he’d find things all right this 
time, "nd he went back to his bunk feelin’ 
toler’ble satisfied with himself. But the 
young woman could n’t find no pin stickin’ 
; 8 


OF TALES 


the baby, ’nd, no matter how much she 
stewed and worrited, the baby kep’ right on 
cryin’, jest the same. Holy smoke! but how 
that baby did cry. 

Now, | reckoned that the colonel would 
be gettin’ almighty mad if this thing kep’ 
up much longer. A man may raise ‘leven 
children as easy as rollin’ off ’n a log, ’nd 
yet the twelfth one, that is n’t his at all, may 
break him. There is ginerally a last straw, 
even when it comes to the matter uv children. 

So when the colonel riz feet foremost for 
the third time outern his bunk that night — 
or, I should say, mornin’, for it was mighty 
near mornin’ now — we looked for hail Co- 
lumby. 

‘‘Look a-here, my good woman,” sez he 
to the young woman with the baby, ‘‘as I 
wuz tellin’ you afore, you must do sumpin 
to keep that child quiet. It ‘ll never do to 
keep all these folks awake like this. They ’ve 
paid for a good night’s sleep, ’nd it’s my 
duty as a director uv the Han’bul ’nd St. Jo 
to pertest ag’in’ this disturbance. I’ve raised 
a family uv ‘leven children, ’nd I know, as 
well as I know anythink, that that child is 


9 


SECOND BOOK 


hungry. No child ever cries like that when 
it is n’t hungry, so I insist on your nursin’ 
it ’nd givin’ us peace ’nd quiet.”’ 

Then the young woman began to sniffle. 

‘‘Law me, sir,” sez the young woman, 
‘‘T ain’t the baby’s mother — I’m only just 
tendin’ it.” 

The colonel got pretty mad then; his face 
got red ’nd his voice kind uv trembled — he 
wuz so mad. 

‘‘Where is its mother P”’ sez the colonel. 
‘“Why is n’t she here takin’ care uv this 
hungry ’nd cryin’ child like she oughtto beP”’ 

‘‘She ’s in the front car, sir,’ sez the 
young woman, chokin’ up. ‘‘She’s in the 
front car —in a box, dead; we’re takin’ the 
body ’nd the baby back home.” 

Now what would you or me have done — 
what would any man have done then ’nd 
there P Jest what the colonel done. 

The colonel did n’t wait for no second 
thought; he jest reached out his big bony 
hands ’nd he sez, ‘‘ Young woman, gi’ me 
that baby’ — sez it so quiet ’nd so gentle 
like that seemed like it wuz the baby’s mo- 
ther that wuz a-speakin’. 


10 


OF TALES 


The colonel took the baby, and — now, 
may be you won’t believe me — the colonel 
held that baby ’nd rocked it in his arms ’nd 
talked to it like it had been his own child. 
And the baby seemed to know that it lay 
ag’in’ a lovin’ heart, for, whenit heerd the ol’ 
man’s kind voice ’nd saw his smilin’ face nd 
felt the soothin’ rockin’ uv his arms, the baby 
stopped its grievin’ ’nd cryin’, ’nd cuddled 
up close to the colonel’s breast, ’nd begun to 
coo ’nd laff. 

The colonel called the nigger. ‘‘Jim,”’ sez 
he, ‘‘ you go ahead ’nd tell the conductor to 
stop the train at the first farm-house. We’ve 
got to have some milk for this child — 
some warm milk with sugar into it; I hain’t 
raised a family uv ‘leven children for no- 
thin’.”’ 

The baby did n't cry no more that night; 
leastwise we did n’t hear it if it dd cry. 
And what if we had heerd it? Blessed if | 
don’t think every last one of us would have 
got up to help tend that lonesome little 
thing. 

That wuz more ’n twenty years ago, but 
I kin remember the last words I heerd the 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


colonel say: ‘‘No matter if it does cry,” sez 
he. ‘‘It don’t make no more noise than a 
cricket, nohow; ’nd I reckon that being a 
director uv the road | kin stop the train ’nd 
let off anybody that don’t like the way the 
Han’bul ’nd St. Jo does business.” 

Twenty years ago! Colonel Elijah Gates 
is sleepin’ in the Palmyry buryin’-ground; 
likely as not the baby has growed up— 
leastwise the Han’bul ’nd St. Jo has; every- 
think is different now—everythink has 
changed — everythink except humin natur’, 
’nd that is the same, it allus has been, and it 
allus will be, I reckon. 

1888. 


= 


he Mother mm Paradise 


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n 4 au re m 
a =e Paes Pe ere Dy 






THE MOTHER IN PARADISE 


MOTHER came to the gateway of 

Heaven. She was aged and weary. 
Her body was bowed and her face was 
wrinkled and withered, for her burden had 
been the burden of care and trouble and sor- 
row. So she was glad to be done with life 
and to seek at the gateway of Heaven the 
fulfilment of the Promise that had been her 
solace through all the hard, bitter years. 

An angel met the Mother at the gateway, 
and put her arms about the drooping figure, 
and spoke gracious, tender words. 

‘“Whom seekest thou P” asked the an- 
gel. 

‘‘T seek my dear ones who came hither 
before me,” answered the Mother. ‘‘ They 
are very many — my father, my mother, my 
husband, my children —they all are here to- 


15 


SECOND BOOK 


gether, and for many and weary years | 
have lived in my loneliness, with no other 
thing to cheer me but the thought that | 
should follow them in good time.” 

‘Yes, they are here and they await thee,”’ 
said the angel. ‘‘Lean upon me, dear 
Mother, and I will lead thee to them.”’ 

Then the angel led the way through the 
garden of Paradise, and the angel and the 
Mother talked as they walked together. 

‘‘T am not weary now,” said the Mother, 
‘‘and my heart is not troubled.” 

‘It is the grace of Heaven that restoreth 
thee, dear Mother,” quoth theangel. ‘‘ Pres- 
ently thou shalt be filled with the new life, 
and thou shalt be young again; and thou 
shalt sing with rapture, and thy soul shall 
know the endless ecstasy of Heaven.” 

‘*Alas, I care not to be young again,” 
saith the Mother. ‘‘I care only to find and 
to be forever with my beloved ones.” 

As they journeyed in their way a com- 
pany came to meet them. Then the Mother 
saw and knew her dear ones — even though 
the heavenly life had glorified their counte- 
nances, the Mother knew them, and she ran 

16 


OF TALES 


to greet them, and there was great joy to her 
and to them. Meanwhile the angel kept 
steadfastly at her side. 

Now the Mother, when she had embraced 
her dear ones, looked at each of them sep- 
arately once more, and then she said: ‘‘ Ye 
are indeed my beloved—my mother, my 
father, my husband, and my children! But 
there is one who should be of your company 
whom I do not see—my babe, my little 
helpless babe that came hither alone so 
many, many years ago. My heart fainteth, 
my breast yearneth for that dear little lamb 
of mine! Come, let us go together and 
search for her; or await me here under these 
pleasant trees while I search and call in this 
fair garden for my dear, lost little babe!” 

The others answered never a word, but 
the angel said: ‘‘I will go with thee, 
Mother, and together we shall find thy 
child.” 

As they went on their way the angel 
Saiteeee shall [tell thee of myself? For] 
was a little helpless babe when I came 
hither to this fair garden and into this 
heavenly life.” 


ad 


17 


SECOND BOOK 


‘* Perchance thou knowest her, my pre- 
cious lambkin!”’ cried the Mother. 

‘‘T was a babe when I came hither,” 
said the angel. ‘‘See how I am grown 
and what happiness hath been mine! The 
compassion of divinity hath protected and 
fostered me, and hath led me all these years 
in the peace that passeth all human under- 
standing. God hath instructed me in wis- 
dom, and He shall instruct thee, too; for all 
who come hither are as children in His 
sight, and they shall grow in wisdom and in 
grace eternally.” 

‘‘But my babe-—-my own lost little one 
whom I have not held in these arms for so 
many weary years—shall she not still be 
my little babe, and shall I not cradle her 
in my bosom P”’ asked the Mother. 

‘‘Thy child shall be restored to thee,” 
said the angel; ‘‘for she yearneth for thee 
even as thou yearnest for her. Only with 
this difference, dear Mother: Thy child 
hath known, in the grace of heavenly wis- 
dom, that at the last thy earthly sorrow 
should surely be rewarded with the joys of 
the endless reunion in Paradise!”’ 

18 


OF TALES 


“Then she hath thought of me and 
longed for me to come!”’ cried the Mother. 
‘And my lost babe shall be restored and 
shall know her mother again!” 

‘‘Ay, she loveth thee fondly,” said the 
angel, ‘‘and she hath awaited thy coming, 
lo, these many years. Presently thine eyes 
shall be opened and thou shalt see her stand- 
ing before thee in her heavenly raiment 
whiter than snow, and around her neck 
thou shalt see her wearing most precious 
pearls—the tears which thou hast shed, oh 
lonely Mother! and which are the pearls the 
little ones in Heaven gather up and cherish 
as an adornment most pleasing unto God 
and them.” 

Then the Mother felt that her eyes were 
opened, and she turned and looked upon the 
angel. And the Mother saw that the angel 
was her lost beloved child whom she was 
seeking: not the helpless babe that she had 
thought to find, but a maiden of such heavenly 
beauty and gentleness as only the dwellers in 
Paradise behold and know. And the Mother 
spread her arms, and gave a great cry of joy, 
and folded her very dear one to her bosom. 


19 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


Then presently they returned together to 
the others. And there was rapturous ac- 
claim in Paradise, and it was to God’s sweet 
pleasance that it was so. For a Mother and 
her beloved communed in the holy com- 
panionship of love everlasting. 


Nr. and Drs. Wlossom 


e 





MR. AND MRS. BLOSSOM 


HE name we meant to call her was An- 
nette, for that was a name I always 
liked. “Way back, before I got married, I 
made up my mind that if] ever had a daugh- 
ter I should call her Annette. My inten- 
tion was good enough, but circumstances 
of a peculiar nature led me to abandon the 
idea which in anticipation afforded me real- 
ly alot of pleasure. My circumstances have 
always been humble. I say this in no spirit 
of complaint. We have very much to be 
thankful for, and we are particularly grate- 
ful for the blessing which heaven has be- 
stowed upon us in the person of our dear 
child — our daughter who comes from school 
to-night to spend Thanksgiving with us and 
with our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Blossom. | 
must tell you how we became acquainted 
with the Blossoms. 


SECOND BOOK 


When our baby was two years old I used to 
sit of mornings, before going to my work, 
on the front steps, watching the baby play- 
ing on the sidewalk. This pleasantest half- 
hour of the day I divided between the little 
one and my pipe. One morning, as I sat 
there smoking and as the little one was tod- 
dling to and fro on the sidewalk, a portly, 
nice-looking old gentleman came down the 
street, and, as luck would have it, the baby 
got right in his path, and before! could get 
to her she tangled herself all up with the old 
gentleman’s legs andcane. The old gentle- 
man seemed very much embarrassed, but, 
bless your soul! the baby liked it! 

‘*A pretty child —a beautiful child!” said 
the old gentleman, and then he inquired: 
‘Boy or girl?” 

‘‘Girl,”’ says I, and I added: ‘‘Two years 
old and weighs thirty pounds.” 

‘¢That must bea great deal for a little girl 
to weigh,” said the old gentleman, and I 
saw that his eyes lingered lovingly and 
yearningly upon the child. I am sure he 
wanted to say more, but all at once, as if he 
suddenly recollected himself, he glanced fur- 


24 


OF TALES 


tively up the street, and then, turning as 
suddenly the other way, he resumed his 
course downtown. I thought to myself 
that he was a kindly old gentleman, a trifle 
queer, perhaps, but of a gentle nature. 
Three or four times within a week after 
that a similar experience with this old gen- 
tleman befell me and the baby. He would 
greet her cheerily; sometimes he would pat 
her head, and I saw that his heart warmed 
toward her. But all the time he talked with us 
he seemed to act as if he feared he was being 
watched, and he left us abruptly — some- 
times breaking away in the middle of a sen- 
tence as if he was afraid he might say some- 
thing he ought not to say. Atlast, however, 
I learned that his name was Blossom, and 
that Mrs. Blossom and he lived alone in a 
fine house up yonder in a more fashionable 
part of our street. In an outburst of confi- 
dence one morning he told me that he was 
very fond of children, and that he felt that 
much was gone out of his life because no little 
one had ever come to Mary and himself. 
“But,” he added with an air of assumed 
cheerfulness, ‘‘as Mary does not like children 


25 


SECOND BOOK 


at all, itis perhaps for the best that none has 
ever come to us.” 

I now understood why Mr. Blossom was 
so cautious in his attentions to our baby; he 
was fearful of being observed by his wife; 
he felt that it was his duty to humor her in 
her disinclination to children. I! pitied the 
dear old gentleman, and for the same reason 
conceived a violent dislike for Mrs. Blossom. 

But my wife Cordelia told me something 
one day that set my heart to aching for both 
the two old people. 

‘“A sweet-looking old lady passed the 
house this afternoon,” said Cordelia, ‘‘ and 
took notice of baby asleep in my arms on the 
porch. She stopped and asked me all about 
her and presently she kissed her, and then | 
saw that she was crying softly to herself. 
I asked her if she had ever lost a little girl, 
and she saidno. ‘IJ have always been child- 
less,’ said the sweet old lady. ‘In all the 
years of my wifehood I have besought but 
one blessing of heaven —the joy of mater- 
nity. My prayers are unanswered, and it is 
perhaps better so.’ She told me then that 
her husband did not care for children; she 

26 


ORs PALE Ss 


could hardly reconcile his professed antipathy 
to them with his warm, gentle, and loyal 
nature; but it was well, if he did not want 
children, that none had come.”’ 

‘“What was the old lady’s name?” I 
asked. 

‘‘Mrs. Blossom,” said my wife Cordelia. 

I whistled softly to myself. Then I told 
Cordelia of my experience with Mr. Blossom, 
and we wondered where and when and how 
this pathetic comedy of cross-purposes would 
end. We talked the matter over many a 
time after that, and we agreed that it would 
be hard to find an instance of deception more 
touching than that which we had met with 
in the daily life of Mr. and Mrs. Blossom. 
Meanwhile the two old people became more 
and more attached to our precious baby. 
Every morning brought Mr. Blossom down 
the street with a smile and a caress and a 
tender word for the little one, that toddled 
to meet him and overwhelm him with her 
innocent prattle. Every afternoon found the 
sweet-looking old lady in front of our house, 
fondling our child, and feeding her starv- 
ing maternal instinct upon the little one’s 


a7 


SECOND BOOK 


caresses. Each one — the old gentleman and 
the old lady — each one confessed by action 
and by word to an overwhelming love for 
children, yet between them stood that piti- 
less lie, conceived of the tenderest consider- 
ation for each other, but resulting in lifelong 
misery. 

I tell you, it was mighty hard sometimes 
for Cordelia and me not to break out with the 
truth! 

It occurred to us both that there would 
eventually come a time when the friendship 
of Mr. and Mrs. Blossom would be precious 
indeed to our daughter. We had great hopes 
of that child, and all our day-dreams involved 
her. She must go to school, she must be 
educated, she must want nothing; there was 
no conceivable sacrifice which Cordelia and 
I would not make gladly for our little girl. 
Would we be willing to share her love with 
these two childless old people, who yearned 
for that love and were ready to repay it with 
every benefit which riches can supply P We 
asked ourselves that question a thousand 
times. God helped us to answer it. 

The winter set in early and suddenly. We 

28 


> OF+TALES 


were awakened one night by that hoarse, 
terrifying sound which chills the parent heart 
with anxiety. Our little one was flushed 
with fever, and there was a rattling in her 
throat when she breathed. When the doctor 
came he told us not to be frightened; this 
was a mild form of croup, he said. His 
medicines seemed to give relief, for presently 
the child breathed easier and slept. Next 
morning an old gentleman on his way down- 
town wondered why the baby was not out 
to greet him with a hilarious shout; he felt 
that here — all about his heart — which told 
him that two dimpled hands had taken hold 
and held him fast. An old lady came to the 
door that day and asked questions hurriedly 
and in whispers, and went away crying to 
herself under her veil. 

When it came night again the baby was 
as good as well. I was rocking her and 
telling her a story, when the door-bell rang. 
A moment later — I could hardly believe my 
senses, but Mr. Blossom stood before me. 

‘‘T heard she was sick,” said he, coming 
up to the cradle and taking the baby’s hand 
awkwardly, but tenderly, in his. ‘‘ Youcan 


29 


SECOND BOOK 


never know how! have suffered all day, for 
this little one has grown very dear to me, 
and | dare not think what I should do if evil 
were to befall her. To-night I told my wife 
alie. I said that I had a business engage- 
ment that called me downtown; I told her 
that in order to hasten here without letting 
her know the truth. She does not like chil- 
dren; I would not for the world have her 
know how tenderly I love this little one.”’ 

He was still talking to me in this wise 
when I heard a step upon the stairway. I 
went to the door and opened it. Mrs. Blos- 
som stood there. 

‘*] have worried all day about the baby,” 
she said, excitedly. ‘‘ Fortunately, Mr. Blos- 
som was called downtown this evening, and 
I have run in to ask how our precious baby 
is. I must go away at once, for he does not 
care for children, you know, and I would 
not have him know how dear this babe has 
grown to me!” 

Mrs. Blossom stood on the threshold as 
she said these words. And then she saw 
the familiar form of the dear old gentleman 
bending over the cradle, holding the baby’s 


30 


OF TALES 


hands in his. Mr. Blossom had recognized 
his wife’s voice and heard her words. 

‘‘Mary!” he cried, and he turned and 
faced her. She said, ‘‘Oh, John!” —that 
was all, and her head drooped upon her 
breast. So there they stood before each 
other, confronted by the revelation which 
they had thought buried in long and many 
years. 

She was the first to speak, for women are 
braver and stronger than men. She accused 
herself and took all the blame. But he 
would not listen to her self-reproaches. And 
they spoke to each other —I know not what 
things, only that they were tender and sweet 
and of consolation. I remember that at the 
last he put his arm about her as if he had not 
been an aged man and she were not white- 
haired and bowed, but as if they two were 
walking in the springtime of their love. 

“‘It is God’s will,” he said, ‘‘and let us 
not rebel against it. The journey tothe end 
is but a little longer now; we have come so 
far together, and surely we can go on alone.” 

‘*No, not alone,” | said, for the inspira- 
tion came to me then. ‘‘Our little child 


31 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


yonder — God has lent this lambkin to our 
keeping — share her love with us. There is 
so much, so very much you can do for her 
which we cannot do, for we are poor, and 
you are rich. Help us to care for her and 
share her love with us, and she shall be your 
child and ours.” 

That was the compact between us fifteen 
years ago, and they have been happy, very 
happy years. Blossom — we call her Blos- 
som, after the dear old friends who have 
been so good to her and to us—she comes 
from school to-night, and to-morrow we 
shall sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with 
our daughter. We always speak of her as 
‘‘our daughter,” for, you know, she belongs 
now no more to Cordelia and me than to 
Mr. and Mrs. Blossom. 


cd 


Death and the Soldier 


e 





DEATH AND THE SOLDIER 


SOLDIER, who had won imperishable 

fame on the battlefields of his country, 

was confronted by a gaunt stranger, clad all 

in black and wearing an impenetrable mask. 

‘‘Who are you that you dare to block my 
way ?”’ demanded the soldier. 

Then the stranger drew aside his mask, 
and the soldier knew that he was Death. 

‘‘Have you come for me P”’ asked the sol- 
dier. ‘‘Ifso, I willnot go with you; so go 
your way alone.” 

But Death held out his bony hand and 
beckoned to the soldier. 

‘“No,”’ cried the soldier, resolutely; ‘‘my 
time is not come. See, here are the histo- 
ries | am writing —no hand but mine can 
finish them—I will not go till they are 
done!”’ 

35 


SECOND BOOK 


‘‘] have ridden by your side day and 
night,” said Death; ‘‘I have hovered about 
you on a hundred battlefields, but no sight 
of me could chill your heart till now, and 
now | hold you in my power. Come!”’ 

And with these words Death seized upon 
the soldier and strove to bear him hence, but 
the soldier struggled so desperately that he 
prevailed against Death, and the strange 
phantom departed alone. Then when he 
had gone the soldier found upon his throat 
the imprint of Death’s cruel fingers—so 
fierce had been the struggle. And nothing 
could wash away the marks — nay, not all 
the skill in the world could wash them 
away, for they were disease, lingering, ag- 
onizing, fatal disease. But with quiet valor 
the soldier returned to his histories, and for 
many days thereafter he toiled upon them 
as the last and best work of his noble life. 

‘* How pale and thin the soldieris getting,” 
said the people. ‘‘ His hair is whitening 
and his eyes are weary. He should not 
have undertaken the histories — the labor is 
killing him.” 

They did not know of his struggle with 

36 


OF TALES 


Death, nor had they seen the marks upon 
the soldier’s throat. But the physicians who 
came to him, and saw the marks of Death’s 
cruel fingers, shook their heads and said the 
soldier could not live to complete the work 
upon which his whole heart was set. And 
the soldier knew it, too, and many a time he 
paused in his writing and laid his pen aside 
and bowed his head upon his hands and 
strove for consolation in the thought of the 
great fame he had already won. But there 
was no consolation in all this. So when 
Death came a second time he found the sol- 
dier weak and trembling and emaciated. 

‘It would be vain of you to struggle with 
me now,” said Death. ‘‘ My poison is in 
your veins, and, see, my dew is on your 
brow. But you are a brave man, and I will 
not bear you with me till you have asked 
one favor, which I will grant.” 

‘Give me an hour to ask the favor,” said 
the soldier. ‘‘ There are so many things — 
my histories and all— give me an hour that 
I may decide what I shall ask.” 

And as Death tarried, the soldier com- 
muned with himself. Before he closed his 


37 


SECOND BOOK 


eyes forever, what boon should he ask of 
Deathe And the soldier’s thoughts sped 
back over the years, and his whole life came 
to him like a lightning flash— the compan- 
ionship and smiles of kings, the glories of 
government and political power, the honors 
of peace, the joys of conquest, the din of 
battle, the sweets of a quiet home life upon 
a western prairie, the gentle devotion of a 
wife, the clamor of noisy boys, and the face 
of a little girl—ah, there his thoughts lin- 
gered and clung. 

‘* Time to complete our work — our books 
— our histories,’ counselled Ambition. ‘‘Ask 
Death for time to do this last and crowning 
act of our great life.’’ 

But the soldier’s ears were deaf to the 
cries of Ambition; they heard another voice 
—the voice of the soldier's heart— and 
the voice whispered: ‘‘ Nellie — Nellie — 
Nellie.” That was all—no other words but 
those, and the soldier struggled to his feet 
and stretched forth his hands and called to 
Death; and, hearing him calling, Death came 
and stood before him. | 

‘‘T have made my choice,” said the Soldier. 

38 


OK, TALES 


‘‘ The books P”’ asked Death, with a scorn- 
ful smile. 

‘*No, not them,” said the soldier, ‘‘ but 
my little girl—my Nellie! Give mea lease 
of life till I have held her in these arms, and 
then come for me and I will go!”’ 

Then Death’s hideous aspect was changed; 
his stern features relaxed and a look of pity 
came upon them. And Death said, ‘It 
shall be so,” and saying this he went his 
way. 

Now the soldier's child was far away — 
many, many leagues from where the soldier 
lived, beyond a broad, tempestuous ocean. 
She was not, as you might suppose, a little 
child, although the soldier spoke of her as 
such. She was a wife and a mother; yet 
even in her womanhood she was to the sol- 
dier’s heart the same little girl the soldier had 
held upon his knee many and many a time 
while his rough hands weaved prairie flow- 
ers in her soft, fair curls. And the soldier 
called her Nellie now, just as he did then, 
when she sat on his knee and prattled of her 
dolls. This is the way of the human heart. 

It having been noised about that the sol- 


a? 


SECOND BOOK 


dier was dying and that Nellie had been sent 
for across the sea, all the people vied with 
each other in soothing the last moments of 
the famous man, for he was beloved by all 
and all were bound to him by bonds of 
patriotic gratitude, since he had been so 
brave a soldier upon the battlefields of his 
country. But the soldier did not heed their 
words of sympathy; the voice of fame, 
which, in the past, had stirred a fever in his 
blood and fallen most pleasantly upon his 
ears, awakened no emotion in his bosom 
now. The soldier thought only of Nellie, 
and he awaited her coming. 

An old comrade came and pressed his 
hand, and talked of the times when they 
went to the wars together; and the old com- 
rade told of this battle and of that, and how 
such a victory was won and such a city 
taken. But the soldier’s ears heard no 
sound of battle now, and his eyes could see 
no flash of sabre nor smoke of war. 

So the people came and spoke words of 
veneration and love and hope, and so with 
quiet fortitude, but with a hungry heart, the 
soldier waited for Nellie, his little girl, 


4a 


OF TALES 


She came across the broad, tempestuous 
ocean. The gulls flew far out from land 
and told the winds, and the winds flew 
further still and said to the ship: ‘‘ Speed 
on, O ship! speed on in thy swift, straight 
course, for you are bearing a treasure to a 
father’s heart!” 

Then the ship leapt forward in her path- 
way, and the waves were very still, and the 
winds kept whispering ‘‘ Speed on, O ship,” 
till at last the ship was come to port and 
the little girl was clasped in the soldier's 
arms. 

Then for a season the soldier seemed 
quite himself again, and people said ‘‘ He 
will live,” and they prayed that he might. 
But their hopes and prayers were vain. 
Death’s seal was on the soldier, and there 
was no release. 

The last days of the soldier’s life were the 
most beautiful of all— but what a mockery 
of ambition and fame and all the grand, pre- 
tentious things of life they were! They 
were the triumph of a human heart, and 
what is better or purer or sweeter than that P 

No thought of the hundred battlefields 


4l 


- SECOND BOOK 


upon which his valor had shown conspic- 
uous came to the soldier now—nor the 
echo of his eternal fame—nor even yet the 
murmurs of a sorrowing people. Nellie was 
by his side, and his hungry, fainting heart 
fed on her dear love and his soul went back 
with her to the years long agone. 

Away beyond the western horizon upon 
the prairie stands a little home over which 
the vines trail. All about it is the tall, wav- 
ing grass, and over yonder is the swale with 
a legion of chattering blackbirds perched on 
its swaying reeds and rushes. Bright wild 
flowers bloom on every side, the quail whis- 
tles on the pasture fence, and from his home 
in the chimney corner the cricket tries to 
chirrup an echo to the lonely bird’s call. In 
this little prairie home we see a man holding 
on his knee a little girl, who is telling him 
of her play as he smooths her fair curls or 
strokes her tiny velvet hands; or perhaps 
she is singing him one of her baby songs, 
or asking him strange questions of the great 
wide world that is so new to her; or per- 
haps he binds the wild flowers she has 
brought into a little nosegay for her new 


42 


OF TALES 


gingham dress, or—but we see it all, and 
so, too, does the soldier, and so does Nellie, 
and they hear the blackbird’s twitter and the 
quail’s shrill call and the cricket’s faint echo, 
and all about them is the sweet, subtle, holy 
fragrance of memory. 

And so at last, when Death came and the 
soldier fell asleep forever, Nellie, his little 
girl, was holding his hands and whispering 
to him of those days. Hers were the last 
words he heard, and by the peace that rested 
on his face when he was dead you might 
have thought the soldier was dreaming of a 
time when Nellie prattled on his knee and 
bade him weave the wild flowers in her 
curls. 


43 





- 
he FJinin’ Farms 


- 





THE ’JININ’ FARMS 


OU see Bill an’ I wuz jest like brothers; 
Wuz raised on ’jinin’ farms: he wuz 
his folks’ only child, an’ / wuz my folks’ only 
one. So, nat’ril like, we growed up to- 
gether, lovin’ an’ sympathizin’ with each 
other. What / knowed, I told Bz/, an’ what 
Bill knowed, he told me, an’ what neither 
on us knowed—why, that warn’t wuth 
knowin’! 

If] had n't got over my braggin’ days, I'd 
allow that, in our time, Bill an’ I wuz jest 
about the sparkin’est beaus in the township; 
leastwise that ’s what the girls thought; but, 
to be honest about it, there wuz only two uv 
them girls we courted, Bill an’ I, be courtin’ 
one an’! t’other. You sée we sung in the 
choir, an’ as our good luck would have it 
We got sot on the sopranner an’ the alto, an’ 
bimeby — oh, well, after beauin’ *em round 


47 


SECOND BOOK 


a spell—a year or so, for that matter — we 

up an’ married ’em, an’ the old folks gin us 

the farms, ‘jinin’ farms, where we boys had 

lived all our lives. Lizzie, my wife, had al- 

ways been powerful friendly with Marthy, 

Bill’s wife; them two girls never met up but 

what they wuz huggin’ an’ kissin’ an’ car- 
ryin’ on, like girls does; for women ain’t 

like men — they can’t control theirselves an’ 

their feelin’s, like the stronger sext does. 

I tell you, it wuz happy times for Lizzie 
an’ me and Marthy an’ Bill — happy times on 
the ‘jinin’ farms, with the pastures full uv 
fat cattle, an’ the barns full uv hay an’ grain, 
and the twin cottages full uv love an’ con- 
tentment! Then when Cyrus come— our 
little boy —our first an’ only one! why, 
when he come, I wuz jest so happy an’ so 
srateful that if I had n’t been a man I guess 
I’d have hollered — maybe cried — with joy. 
Wanted to call the little tyke Bill, but Bill 
would n’t hear to nothin’ but Cyrus. You 
see, he ’d bought a cyclopeedy the winter 
we wuz all marr’ed an’ had been readin’ in 
it uv a great foreign warrior named Cyrus 
that lived a long spell ago. 


48 


OF TALES 


‘‘Land uv Goshen, Bill!” sez I, ‘‘you 
don’t reckon the baby ’Il ever be a war- 
rior P”’ 

‘Well, I don’t know about that,” sez Bill. 
‘‘There ’s no tellin’. At any rate, Cyrus 
Ketcham has an uncommon sound for a 
name; so Cyrus it must be, an’ when he’s 
seven years old I'll gin him the finest Mor- 
gan colt in the deestrick!” 

So we called him Cyrus, an’ he grew up 
lovin’ and bein’ loved by everybody. 

Well, along about two years —or, say, 
eighteen months or so — after Cyrus come 
to us alittle girl baby come to Bill an’ Marthy, 
an’ of all the cunnin’ sweet little things you 
ever seen that little girl baby was the cun- 
nin’est an’ sweetest! Looked jest like one of 
them foreign crockery figgers you buy in 
city stores—all pink an’ white, with big 
brown eyes here, an’ a teeny, Weeney mouth 
there, an’ a nose an’ ears, you’d have bet 
they wuz wax—they wuz so small an’ 
fragile. Never darst hold her for fear! ’d 
break her, an’ it liked to skeered me to 
death to see the way Marthy and Lizzie 
would kind uv toss her round an’ trot her — 


49 





SECOND BOOK 


so — on their knees or pat her — so —on the 
back when she wuz collicky like the wim- 
min folks sezall healthy babies is afore they’re 
three months old. 

‘“You ’re goin’ to have the namin’ uv her,”’ 
sez Bill to me. 

‘“Yes,” sez Marthy; ‘‘we made it up 
atween us long ago that you should have the 
namin’ uv our baby like we had the namin’ 
uv yourn.” 

Then, kind uv hectorin’ like —for | was 
always a powerful tease—I sez: ‘‘How 
would Cleopatry do for a name? or Venis? 
I have been readin’ the cyclopeedy myself, 
I’d have you know!” 

An’ then I laffed one on them provokin’ 
laffs uv mine — oh, I tell ye, I was the worst 
feller for hectorin’ folks you ever seen! But 
I meant it all in fun, for when I suspicioned 
they did n’t like my funnin’, I sez: ‘‘ Bill,” 
sez I, ‘‘an’ Marthy, there ’s only one name 
I ’d love above all the rest to call your little 
lambkin, an’ that’s the dearest name on earth 
to me— the name uv Lizzie, my wife!” 

That jest suited em toa T, an’ always after 
that she wuz called leetle Lizzie, an’ it sot 


50 


ir PAGES 


on her, that name did, like zt was made for 
her, an’ she for zt. We made it up then — 
perhaps more in fun than anything else — 
that when the children growed up, Cyrus 
an’ leetle Lizzie, they should get marr’d to- 
gether, an’ have both the farms an’ be happy, 
an’ be a blessin’ to us all in our old age. 
We made it up in fun, perhaps, but down in 
our hearts it wuz our prayer jest the same, and 
God heard the prayer an’ gragted it to be so. 

They played together, they lived together; 
together they tended deestrick school an’ 
went huckleberryin’; there wuz huskin’s 
an’ spellin’ bees an’ choir meetin’s an’ skat- 
in’ an’ slidin’ down-hill—oh, the happy 
times uv youth! an’ all those times our boy 
Cyrus an’ their leetle Lizzie went lovin’ly 
together! 

What made me start so— what made me 
ask of Bill one time: ‘‘ Are we a-gettin’ old, 
Bille”? that wuz the Thanksgivin’ night 
when, as we Set round the fire in Bill’s front- 
room, Cyrus come to us, holdin’ leetle Lizzie 
by the hand, an’ they asked us could they 
get marr’d come next Thanksgivin’ time? 
Why, it seemed only yesterday that they 


51 


SECOND BOOK 


wuz chicks together! God! how swift the 
years go by when they are happy years! 

‘‘Reuben,”’ sez Bill to me, ‘‘ le’s go down- 
cellar and draw a pitcher uv cider!” 

You see that, bein’ men, it wuz n’t for us 
to make a show uv ourselves. Marty an’ 
Lizzie just hugged each other an’ laughed an’ 
cried—they wuzsoglad! Thenthey hugged 
Cyrus an’ leetle Lizzie; and talk and laff? 
Well, it did beat all how them women folks 
did talk and laugh, all at one time! Cyrus 
laffed, too, an’ then he said he reckoned he’d 
eo out an’ throw some fodder in to the steers, 
and Bill an’ I— well, we went down-cellar 
to draw that pitcher uv cider. 

It ain’t for me to tell now uv the meller 
sweetness uv their courtin’ time; 1 could n’t 
do it if I tried. Oh, how we loved ’em both! 
Yet, once in the early summer-time, our boy 
Cyrus he come to me an’ said: ‘‘ Father, | 
want you to let me go away for a spell.” 

‘‘Cyrus, my boy! Go away?” 

“Yes, father; President Linkern has called 
for soldiers; father, you have always taught 
me to obey the voice of Duty. That voice 
summons me now.” 


52 


OF TALES 


‘*God in heaven,” I thought, ‘‘ you have 
given us this child only to take him from 
us!” 

But then came the second thought: 
‘Steady, Reuben! You are a man; le a 
man! Steady, Reuben; be a man!” 

‘‘Yer mother,” sez I, ‘‘ yer mother —it 
will break her heart!”’ 

‘*She leaves it all to you, father.” 

“But—the other—the other, Cyrus — 
leetle Lizzie — ye know!” 

‘¢ She is content,’’ sez he. 

A storm swep’ through me like a cyclone. 
It wuz all Bill’s fault; that warrior-name had 
done it all— the cyclopeedy with its lies had 
pizened Bill’s mind to put this trouble on me 
an’ mine! 

No, no, athousand times no! These wuz 
coward feelin’s an’ they misbecome me; the 
ache herein this heart uv mine had no busi- 
ness there. The better part uv me called to 
mean’ said: ‘‘ Pull yourself together, Reuben 
Ketcham, and be a man!” 

Well, after he went away, leetle Lizzie 
wuz more to us ’n ever before; wuz at our 
house all the time; called Lizzie ‘‘ mother ”’; 


a3 


SECOND BOOK 


wuz contented, in her woman’s way, willin’ 
to do her part, waitin’ an’ watchin’ an’ prayin’ 
for him to come back. They sent him boxes 
of good things every fortnight, mother an’ 
leetle Lizzie did; there wuz n’t a minute uv 
the day that they wuz n't talkin’ or thinkin’ 
uv him. 

Well — ye — see —I must tell it my own 
way — he got killed. In the very first battle 
Cyrus got killed. The rest uv the soldiers 
turnt to retreat, because there wuz too many 
for ’em onthe other side. But Cyrus stood 
right up; he wuz the warrior Bill allowed 
he wuz goin’ to be; our boy wuz n't the 
kind to run. They tell me there wuz bullet 
holes here, an’ here, an’ here —all over his 
breast. We always knew our boy wuz a 
hero! ; 

Yecan thank God ye wuz n’t at the jinin’ 
farms when the news come that he ’d got 
killed. The neighbors, they were there, of 
course, to kind uv hold us up an’ comfort us. 
Bill an’ I sot all day in the woodshed, holdin’ 
hands an’ lookin’ away from each other, so; 
never said a word; jest sot there, sympa- 
thizin’ an’ holdin’ hands. If we’d been wo- 


54 





OF TALES 


men, Bill an’ I would uv cried an’ beat our 
forrids an’ hung round each other’s neck, like 
the womenfolks done. Bein’ we wuz men, 
we jest set there in the woodshed, away from 
all the rest, holdin’ hands an’ sympathizin’. 

From that time on, leetle Lizzie wuz our 
daughter — our very daughter, all that wuz 
left tous uv our boy. Shenever shed a tear; 
crep’ like a shadder ’round the house an’ up 
the front walk an’ through the garden. Her 
heart wuz broke. You could see it in the 
leetle lambkin’s eyes an’ hear it in her voice. 
Wanted to tell her sometimes when she 
kissed me and called me ‘‘ father ’’ — wanted 
tortell hier, ***“Ceetle Lizzie, let me help: ye 
bear yer load. Speak out the sorrer that ’s 
in yer broken heart; speak it out, leetle one, 
an’ let me help yer bear yer load!” 

But it isn’t fora man to have them feelin’s 
— leastwise, it is n’t for him to tell uv ’em. 
So I held my peace and made no sign. 

She jest drooped, an’ pined, an’ died. 
One mornin’ in the spring she wuz standin’ 
in the garden, an’ all at oncet she threw her 
- arms up, so, an’ fell upon her face, an’ when 
they got to her all thet wuz left to us uv leetle 


5 


SECOND BOOK 


Lizzie wuz her lifeless leetle body. I can’t 
tell of what happened next — uv the funeral 
an’ all that. I said this wuz in the spring, 
an’ so it wuz all around us; but it wuz cold 
and winter here. 

One day mother sez to me: ‘‘ Reuben,” 
sez she, softlike, ‘‘ Marthy an’ I is goin’ to the 
buryin’ ground for aspell. Don’t youreckon 
it would bea good time for you to step over 
an’ see Bill while we ’re gone P”’ 

‘‘Mebbe so, mother,”’ sez I. 

It wuz apretty day. Cuttin’ across lots, | 
thought to myself what I'd say to Bill to 
kind uv comfort him. I made it up that I’d 
speak about the time when we wuz boys to- 
gether; uv how we used to slide down the 
meetin’-house hill, an’ go huckleberryin’; uv 
how I jumped into the pond one day an’ 
saved him from bein’ drownded; uv the 
spellin’ school, the huskin’ bees, the choir 
meetin’s, the sparkin’ times; of the swim- 
min’ hole, the crow’s nest in the pine-tree, 
the woodchuck’s hole in the old pasture lot; 
uv the sunny summer days an’ the snug 
winter nights when we wuz boys, an’ happy! 
And then —— 

56 


OFF TALES 


No, no! I could n’t go on like that! I’d 
break down. A mancan’t beaman more’n 
jest so far! 

Why did mother send me over to see 
Bill? I ’d better stayed to home! I felt 
myself chokin’ up; if I had n’t took a 
chew uv terbacker, Id ’ave been cryin’, in 
a minute! 

The nearer I got to Bill’s, the worst I hated 
to go in. Standin’ on the stoop, I could 
hear the tall clock tickin’ solemnly inside — 
‘*tick-tock, tick-tock,” jest as plain as if | 
WuZ Settin’ aside uvit. The door wuz shet, 
yet I knew jest what Bill wuz doin’; he was 
settin’ in the old red easy-chair, lookin’ 
down at the floor—like this. Strange, 
ain’t it, how sometimes when you love folks 
you know jest what they ’re doin’, without 
knowin’ anything about it! 

There warn’t no use knockin’, but | 
knocked three times; so. Did n’t say a word; 
only jest knocked three times — that a-way. 
Did n’t hear no answer—nothin’ but the 
tickin’ uv the tall clock; an’ yet I knew that 
Bill heered me an’ that down in his heart he 
was sayin’ to me to come in. He never 


57 


SECOND BOOK 


said a word, yet I knowed all the time Bill 
wuz sayin’ for me to come in. 

I opened the door, keerful-like, an’ slipped 
in. Did n't say nothin’ ; jest opened the door, 
softly-like, an’ slipped in. There set Bill 
jist as | knowed he was settin’, lonesome- 
like, sad-like; his head hangin’ down; he 
never looked up at me; never said a word — 
knowed I wuz there all the time, but never 
said a word an’ never made a sign. 

How changed Bill wuz —oh, Bill, how 
changed ye wuz! There wuz furrers in yer 
face an’ yer hair wuz white — as white as — 
as white as mine! Looked small about the 
body, thin an’ hump-shouldered. 

Jest two ol’ men, that ’s what we wuz; 
an’ we had been boys together! 

Well, | stood there a spell, kind uv hesi- 
tatin’ like, neither uv us sayin’ anything, un- 
til bimeby Bill he sort of made asign for me 
to set down. Did n’t speak, did n't lift his 
eyes from the floor; only made a sign, like 
this, in a weak, tremblin’ way — that wuz 
all. An’ I set down, and there we both set, 
neither uv us sayin’ a word, but both settin’ 
there, lovin’ each other, an’ sympathizin’ as 

58 





OF TALES 


hard as we could, for that is the way with 
men. 

Bimeby, like we ’d kind uv made it up 
aforehand, we hitched up closer, for when 
folks is in sorrer an’ trouble they like to be 
closte together. Butnota word all the time, 
an’ hitchin’ closer an’ closer together, why, 
bimeby we set side by side. So we seta 
spell longer, lovin’ an’ sympathizin’, as men- 
folks do; thinkin’ uv the old times, uv our 
boyhood; thinkin’ uv the happiness uv the 
past an’ uv all the hopes them two children 
had brought us! The tall clock ticked, an’ 
that wuz all the sound there wuz, excep’ 
when Bill gin a sigh an’ I gin a sigh, too — 
to lighten the load, ye know. 

Nota word come from either of us: ’t wuz 
all we could do to set there, lovin’ each other 
an’ sympathizin’! 

All at oncet — for we could n’t stand it no 
longer —all at oncet we turnt our faces 
t’ other way an’ reached out, so, an’ groped 
with our hands, this way, till we found an’ 
held each other fast in a clasp uv tender 
meanin’. 

Then — God forgive me if | done a wrong 

oe 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


—then I wisht | wuza woman! For, bein’ 
a woman, | could have riz up, an’, standin’ 
so, | could have cried: ‘‘Come, Bill! come, 
let me hold you in these arms; come, let us 
weep together, an’ let this broken heart uv 
mine speak through these tremblin’ lips to 
that broken heart uv yourn, Bill, tellin’ ye 
how much I love ye an’ sympathize with 
veln 

But—no! I wuz nota woman! I wuz 
a man! an’, bein’ a man, I must let my 
heart break; | must hold my peace, an’ ] must 
make no sign. 


60 


= 
The Angel and the Flotvers 


= 





THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS 


N angel once asked the Father if he 
might leave heaven for a day and go 
down to earth to visit the flowers and birds 
and little children, for you must know that 
no other earthly things so much please the 
angels of heaven as do the flowers, the birds, 
and the little children. 

| eyes,~ said the Father, “‘ you may, go 
down to earth, but be sure to stay no long- 
er than a day; and when you come back 
to heaven bring me the loveliest flower you 
can find, that I may transplant it to my gar- 
den and love it for its beauty and its fra- 
erance. Cherish it tenderly, that no harm 
may befall it.” 

Then the angel went down to the earth, 
and he came to a beautiful rose-bush upon 
which bloomed a rose lovelier and more 
fragrant than any of her kind. 

63 


SECOND BOOK 


‘‘Heyday, sweet rose,” said the angel; 
‘how proudly you hold up your fair head 
for the winds to kiss.” 

‘* Ay, that I do,” replied the rose, blush- 
ing, albeit she enjoyed the flattery. ‘‘ But] 
do not care for these idle zephyrs nor for the 
wanton sunbeams that dance among my 
leaves all the day long. To-nighta cavalier 
will come hither and tear me from this awk- 
ward bush with all its thorns, and kiss me 
with impassioned lips, and bear me to his 
lady, who, too, will kiss me and wear me on 
her bosom, next her heart. That, O angel, is 
the glory of the rose—to be a bearer of kisses 
from lover to lover,and to hear the whispered 
vows of the cavalier and his lady, to feel the 
beating of a gentle heart, and to wither on 
the white bosom of a wooed maiden.” 

Then the angel came to a lily that arose 
fair and majestic from its waxen leaves and 
bowed gracefully to each passing breeze. 

‘Why are you so pale and sad, dear lily P” 
asked the angel. 

‘* My love is the north wind,” said the lily, 
‘*and I look for him and mourn because he 
does not come. And when he does come, 

64 


OF TALES 


and I would smile under his caresses, he is 
cold and harsh and cruel to me, and I wither 
and die for a season, and when I am wooed 
back to life again by the smiles and tears of 
heaven, which At the sunlight and the dew, 

lo! he is gone.’ 

The angel smiled sadly to hear of the 
trusting, virgin fidelity of the lily. 

‘Tell me,” asked the lily, ‘‘ will the north 
wind come to-day P” 

‘‘No,” said the angel, ‘‘nor for many 
days yet, since it is early summer now.” 

But the lonely lily did not believe the an- 
gel’s words. Still looking for her cruel 
lover, she held her pale face aloft and ques- 
tioned each zephyr that hurried by. And 
the angel went his way. 

And the angel came next to a daisy that 
thrived in a meadow where the cattle were 
grazing and the lambs were frisking. 

‘‘Nay, do not pluck me, sir,” cried the 
daisy, merrily; ‘‘] would not exchange my 
home in this smiling pasture for a place upon 
the princess’ bosom.” 

‘“You seem very blithesome, little daisy,” 
quoth the angel. 


65 


SECOND BOOK 


‘¢So I am, and why should | not be P” 
rejoined the daisy. ‘‘The dews bathe me 
with their kisses, and the stars wink merrily 
at me all the night through, and during the 
day the bees come and sing their songs to 
me, and the little lambs frisk about me, and 
the big cattle caress me gently with their 
rough tongues, and all seem to say ‘Bloom 
on, little daisy, for we love you.’ So we 
frolic here on the meadow all the time — the 
lambs, the bees, the cattle, the stars, and | 
—and we are very, very happy.” 

Next the angel came to a camellia which 
was most beautiful to look upon. But the 
camellia made no reply to the angel’s saluta- 
tion, for the camellia, having no fragrance, is 
dumb — for flowers, you must know, speak 
by means of their scented breath. The 
camellia, therefore, could say no word to the 
angel, so the angel walked on in silent sad- 
Nessun 

‘‘Look at me, good angel,” cried the 
honeysuckle; ‘‘see how adventuresome I 
am. At the top of this trellis dwells a lady- 
bird, and in her cozy nest are three daugh- 
ters, the youngest of whom | go to woo. | 

66 


OF TALES 


carry Sweetmeats with me to tempt the 
pretty dear; do you think she will love me?”’ 

The angel laughed at the honeysuckle’s 
quaint conceit, but made no reply, for yon- 
der he saw a purple aster he fain would 
question. 

‘* Are you then so busy,” asked the angel, 
‘‘that you turn your head away from every 
other thing and look always into the sky P”’ 

‘Do not interrupt me,’ murmured the 
purple aster. ‘‘I love the great luminous 
sun, and whither he rolls in the blazing 
heavens | turn my face in awe and venera- 
tion. | would be the bride of the sun, but 
he only smiles down upon my devotion and 
beauty!” 

So the angel wandered among the flowers 
all the day long and talked with them. And 
toward evening he came to a little grave 
which was freshly made. 

‘‘Do not tread upon us,” said the violets. 
‘Let us cluster here over this sacred mound 
and sing our lullabies.”’ 

‘“To whom do you sing, little flowers P”’ 
asked the angel. 

‘‘We sing to the child that lies sleeping be- 

67 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


neath us,” replied the violets. ‘‘ All through 
the seasons, even under the snows of winter, 
we nestle close to this mound and sing to 
the sleeping child. None but he hears us, 
and his soul is lulled by our gentle music.”’ 

‘*But do you not often long for other oc- 
cupatiori, for loftier service?” inquired the 
- angel. 

‘*Nay,”’ said the violets, ‘“ we are content, 
for we love to sing to the little, sleeping 
child.” 

The angel was touched by the sweet hu- 
mility of these modest flowers. He wept, 
and his tears fell upon the grave, and the 
flowers drank up the angel tears and sang 
more sweetly than before, but so softly that 
only the sleeping child heard them. 

And when the angel flew back to heaven, 
he cherished a violet in his bosom. 


68 


* 


Che Child’s Detter 


4 





POE} GHILD'S*LET FER 


VERYBODY was afraid of the old gov- 

ernor because he was so cross and 
surly. And one morning he was crosser 
and surlier than ever, because he had been 
troubled for several days with a matter 
which he had already decided, but which 
many people wished to have reversed. A 
man, found guilty of a crime, had been im- 
prisoned, and there were those who, con- 
vinced of his penitence and knowing that his 
family needed his support, earnestly sought 
his pardon. To all these solicitations the 
old governor replied ‘‘no,” and, having 
made up his mind, the old governor had no 
patience with those who persisted in their 
intercessions. So the old governor was in 
high dudgeon one morning, and when he 
came to his office he said to his secretary: 

gi 


SECOND BOOK 


‘Admit no one to see me; I am weary of 
these constant and senseless importunities.”’ 

Now, the secretary had a discreet regard 
for the old governor’s feelings, and it was 
seldom that his presence of mind so far de- 
serted him as to admit of his suffering the 
old governor’s wishes to be disregarded. 
He bolted the door and sat himself down at 
his modest desk and simulated intense en- 
thusiasm in his work. His simulation was 
more intense than usual, for never before 
had the secretary seen the old governor in 
such a harsh mood. 

‘*Has the mail come—where are the 
papers and the letters?’ demanded the old 
governor, in a gruff voice. 

‘‘Here they are, sir,” said the secretary, 
as he put the bundle on the old governor’s 
table. ‘‘ These are addressed to you pri- 
- vately; the business letters are on my desk. 
Would you like to see them now P”’ 

‘“No, not now,” growled the old gov- 
ernor; ‘‘I will read the papers and my pri- 
vate correspondence first.”’ 

But the old governor found cause for un- 
easiness in this employment. The papers 


72 


OF TALES 


discussed the affair of the imprisoned man, 
and these private letters came from certain 
of the old governor's friends, who, strangely 
enough, exhibited an interest in the self-same 
prisoner’s affair. The old governor was 
highly disgusted. 

‘‘ They should mind their own business,”’ 
muttered the old governor. ‘‘ The papers 
are very officious, and these other people 
are simply impertinent. My mind is made 
up — nothing shall change me!” 

Then the old governor turned to his pri- 
vate secretary and bade him bring the busi- 
ness letters, and presently the private secre- 
tary could hear the old governor growling 
and fumbling over the pile of correspond- 
ence. He knew why the old governor was 
so excited; many of these letters were pe- 
titions from the people touching the affair of 
the imprisoned man. Oh, how they angered 
the old governor! 

‘‘Humph!” said the old governor at last, 
‘‘1’m glad I’m done with them. There are 
no more, I suppose.” 

When the secretary made no reply the old 
governor was surprised. He wheeled in 


73 


SECOND BOOK 


his chair and searchingly regarded the sec- 
retary over his spectacles. He saw that the 
secretary was strangely embarrassed. 

‘*You have not shown me all,” said the 
old governor, sternly. ‘‘ What is it you 
have kept back P”’ 

Then the secretary said: ‘‘I had thought 
not to show it to you. It is nothing but a 
little child’s letter—I thought I should not 
bother you with it.” 

The old governor was interested. A 
child’s letter to bzm— what could it be about P 
Such a thing had never happened.to him 
before. 

‘* A child’s letter; let me see it,” said the 
old governor, and, although his voice was 
harsh, somewhat of a tender light came into 
his eyes. 

‘°’T is nothing but a scrawl,” explained the 
secretary, ‘‘ and it comes from the prisoner's 
child-—Monckton’s little girl— Monckton, 
the forger, you know. Of course there’s 
nothing to it—a mere scrawl; for the child 
is only four years old. But the gentleman 
who sends it says the child brought it to him 
and asked him to send it to the governor, 


74 


OFF TALES 


and then, perhaps, the governor would send 
her papa home. 

The old governor took the letter, and he 
scanned it curiously. What a wonderful 
letter it was, and who but a little child could 
have written it! Such strange hieroglyphics 
and such crooked lines—oh! it was a won- 
derful letter, as you can imagine. 

But the old governor saw something more 
than the strange hieroglyphics and crooked 
lines and rude pencillings. He could see in 
and between the lines of the little child’s let- 
ter a sweetness and a pathos he had never 
seen before, and on the crumpled sheet he 
found a love like the love his bereaved heart 
had vainly yearned for, oh! so many years. 

He saw, or seemed to see, a little head 
bending over the crumpled page, a dimpled 
hand toiling at its rude labor of love, and an 
earnest little face smiling at the thought that 
this labor would not be invain. And how 
wearied the little hand grew and how sleepy 
the little head became, but the loyal little 
heart throbbed on and on with patient joy, 
and neither hand nor head rested till the 
task was done. 


79D 


SECOND BOOK 


Sweet innocence of childhood! Who 
would molest thee— who bring thee one 
shadow of sorrow ? Who would not rather 
brave alldangers, endure all fatigues, and bear 
all burdens to shield thee from the worldly 
ills thou dream’st not of ! 

So thought the old governor, as he looked 
upon the crumpled page and saw and heard 
the pleadings of the child’s letter; for you 
must know that from the crumpled page 
there stole a thousand gentle voices that 
murmured in his ears so sweetly that his 
heart seemed full of tears. And the old 
governor thought of his own little one— 
God rest her innocent soul. And it seemed 
to him as if he could hear her dear baby 
voice joining with this other’s in trustful 
pleading. 

The secretary was amazed when the old 
governor said to him: ‘‘ Give me a pardon 
blank.” But what most amazed the secre- 
tary was the tremulous tenderness in the old 
governor's voice and the mistiness behind 
the old governor’s spectacles as he folded the 
crumpled page reverently and put it care- 
fully in the breast pocket of his greatcoat. 

76 


OF TALES 


‘‘Humph,” thought the secretary, ‘‘the 
old governor has a kinder heart than any of 
us suspected.” 

Then, when the prisoner was pardoned 
and came from his cell, people grasped him 
by the hand and said: ‘‘Our eloquence and 
perseverance saved you. Theold governor 
could not withstand the pressure we brought 
to bear on him!” 

But the secretary knew, and the old gov- 
ernor, too — God bless him for his human 
heart! They knew that it was the sacred 
influence of a little child’s letter that had 
done it all— that a dimpled baby hand had 
opened those prison doors. 


77 


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THE SINGER MOTHER 


NCE, as Death walked the earth in 

search of some fair flower upon which 
he could breathe his icy breath, he met the 
graceful and pleasing spirit who is called 
Ambition. 

‘*Good morrow,” quoth Death, ‘‘let us 
jourfiey a time together. Both of us are 
hale fellows; let us henceforth be travelling 
companions.”’ 

Now Ambition is one of the most easily 
cajoled persons in the world. The soft 
words of Death flattered him. So Death 
and Ambition set out together, hand in 
hand. 

And having come into a great city, they 
were walking in a fine street when they be- 
held at the window of a certain house a lady 
who was named Griselda. She was sitting 
at the window, fondling in her lap her child, a 

81 


SECOND BOOK 


beautiful little infant that held out his dimpled 
arms to the mother and prattled sweet little 
things which only a mother can understand. 

‘What a beautiful lady,” said Ambition, 
‘“‘and what a wonderful song she is singing 
to the child.” 

‘“ You may praise the mother as you will,” 
said Death, ‘“but it is the child which en- 
gages my attention and absorbs my admira- 
tion. How | wish the child were mine!” 

But Ambition continued to regard Griselda 
with an eye of covetousness; the song Gri- 
selda sang to her babe seemed to have ex- 
erted a wondrous spell over the spirit. 

‘‘! know a way,” suggested Death, ‘‘ by 
which we can possess ourselves of these 
two — you of the mother and I of the child.” 

Ambition’s eyes sparkled. He longed for 
the beautiful mother. 

‘* Tell me how I may win her,” said he to 
Death, ‘‘ and you shall have the babe.” 

So Death and Ambition walked in the 
street and talked of Griselda and her child. 

Griselda was.a famous singer. She sang 
in the theatre of the great city, and people 
came from all parts of the world to hear her 

82 


OF TALES 


songs and join in her praise. Such a voice 
had never before been heard, and Griselda’s 
fame was equalled only by the riches which 
her art had brought her. In the height of 
her career the little babe came to make her 
life all the sweeter, and Griselda was indeed 


very happy. 
“Who is that at the door ?” inquired Char- 
lotte, the old nurse. ‘‘It must be somebody 


of consequence, for he knocks with a certain 
confidence only those in authority have.”’ 

‘‘Go to the door and see,” said Griselda. 

So Charlotte went to the door, and lo, 
there was a messenger from the king, and 
the messenger was accompanied by two per- 
sons attired in royal robes. 

These companions were Ambition and 
Death, but they were so splendidly arrayed 
you never would have recognized them. 

‘*Does the Lady Griselda abide here P”’ 
asked the messenger. 

‘She does,” replied old Charlotte, courte- 
sying very low, for the brilliant attire of the 
strangers dazzled her. 

‘‘] have a message from the king,” said 
the messenger. 

83 


SECOND BOOK 


Old Charlotte could hardly believe her 
ears. A message from the king! Never 
before had such an honor befallen one in 
Griselda’s station. 

The message besought Griselda to appear 
in the theatre that night before the king, who 
knew of her wondrous voice, but had never 
heard it. And with the message came a 
royal gift of costly jewels, the like of which 
Griselda had never set eyes upon. 

‘““You cannot refuse,” said Ambition in a 
seductive voice. ‘‘Such an opportunity 
never before was accorded you and may 
never again be offered. It is the king for 
whom you are to sing!’ 

Griselda hesitated and cast a lingering 
look at her babe. 

‘Have no fear for the child,” said Death, 
‘*for I will care for him while you are gone.” 

So, between the insinuating advice of 
Ambition and the fair promises of Death, 
Griselda was persuaded, and the messenger 
bore back to the king word that Griselda 
would sing for him that night. 

But Ambition and Death remained as 
guests in Griselda’s household. 


84 


OF TALES 


The child grew restless as the day ad- 
vanced. From the very moment that Death 
had entered the house the little one had 
seemed very changed, but Griselda was so 
busy listening to the flattering speeches of 
Ambition that she did not notice the flush 
on her infant’s cheeks and the feverish rapid- 
ity of his breathing. 

But Death sat grimly in a corner of the 
room and never took his eyes from the crib 
where the little one lay. 

‘*You shall so please the king with your 
beautiful face and voice,’’ said Ambition, 
“that he will confer wealth and title upon 
you. You will be the most famous woman 
on earth; better than that, your fame shall 
live always in history — it shall be eternal! ”’ 

And Griselda smiled, for the picture was 
most pleasing. 

‘‘The child’s hands are hot,” said old 
Charlotte, the nurse, ‘‘and there seem to 
be strange tremors in his little body, and he 
groans as he tosses from one side of his 
cradle to the other.” 

Griselda was momentarily alarmed, but 
Ambition only laughed. 

85 


SECOND BOOK 


‘‘Nonsense,”’ quoth Ambition, ‘‘’tisanold 
woman’s fancy. This envious old witch 
would have you disappoint the king — the 
king, who would load you with riches and 
honors!” 

So the day lengthened, and Griselda lis- 
tened to the grateful flatteries of Ambition. 
But Death sat all the time gazing steadfastly 
on the little one in the cradle. The candles 
were brought, and Griselda arrayed herself 
in her costliest robes. 

‘‘] must look my best,” she said, ‘‘ for 
this is to be the greatest triumph of my life.”’ 

‘*You are very beautiful; you will capti- 
vate the king,”’ said Ambition. 

‘¢The child is very ill,” croaked old Char- 
lotte, the nurse; ‘‘he does not seem to be 
awake nor yet asleep, and there is a strange, 
hoarse rattling in his breathing.” 

‘‘For shame!” cried Ambition. ‘‘ See how 
the glow of health mantles his cheeks and 
how the fire of health burns in his eyes.” 

And Griselda believed the words of Am- 
bition. She did not stoop to kiss her little 
one. She called his name and threw him a 
kiss, and hastened to her carriage in the street 

86 


OF TALES 


below. The child heard the mother’s voice, 
raised his head, and stretched forth his hands 
to Griselda, but she was gone and Ambition 
had gone with her. But Death remained 
with Griselda’s little one. 

The theatre was more brilliant that night 
than ever before. It had been noised about 
that Griselda would sing for the king, and 
lords and ladies in their most imposing rai- 
ment filled the great edifice to overflowing, 
while in the royal box sat the king himself, 
with the queen and the princes and the prin- 
cesses. 

‘It will be a great triumph,” said Ambi- 
tion to Griselda, and Griselda knew that she 
had never looked half so beautiful nor felt 
half so ready for the great task she had to 
perform. There was mighty cheering when 
she swept before the vast throng, and the 
king smiled and bowed when he saw that 
Griselda wore about her neck the costly 
jewels he had sent her. But if the applause 
was mighty when she appeared, what was 
it when she finished her marvellous song and 
bowed herself from the stage! Thrice was 
she compelled to repeat the song, and a 

87 


SECOND BOOK 


score of times was she recalled to receive the 
homage of the delighted throng. Bouquets 
of beautiful flowers were heaped about her 
feet, and with his own hand from his box 
the king threw to her a jewelled necklace far 
costlier than his previous gift. 

As Griselda hurried from her dressing- 
room to her carriage she marvelled that 
Ambition had suddenly and mysteriously 
quitted her presence. In his place stood 
the figure of a woman, all in black, and with 
large, sad eyes and pale face. 

‘‘Who are your” asked Griselda. 

‘*] am the Spirit of Eternal Sorrow,” said 
the woman. 

And the strange, sad woman went with 
Griselda into the carriage and to Griselda’s 
home. 

Old Charlotte, the nurse, met them at the 
door. She was very white and she trem- 
bled as if with fear. 

Then Griselda seemed to awaken from a 
dream. 

‘“My child ?” she asked, excitedly. 

‘‘He is gone,” replied old Charlotte, the 
nurse. 

88 


OF TALES 


Griselda flew to the chamber where she 
had left him. There stood the little cradle 
where he had lain, but the cradle was empty. 
" “*Who has taken him away P”’ cried Gri- 
selda, sinking upon her knees and stretching 
her hands in agony to heaven. 

‘*Death took him away but an hour ago,”’ 
said old Charlotte, the nurse. 

Then Griselda thought of his fevered face 
and his pitiful little moans and sighs; of the 
cuileful flatteries of Ambition that had deaf- 
ened her mother ears to the pleadings of her 
sick babe; of the brilliant theatre and the 
applause of royalty and of the last moments 
of her lonely, dying child. 

And Griselda arose and tore the jewels 
from her breast and threw them far from her 
and cried: ‘‘O God, it is my punishment! 
I am alone.” 

‘*Nay, not so, O mother,” said a solemn 
voice; ‘‘l am with thee and will abide with 
thee forever.” 

Griselda turned and looked upon the tall, 
gloomy figure that approached her with 
these words. 

It was the Spirit of Eternal Sorrow. 


89 





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THE TWO WIVES 


N a certain city there were two wives 
named Gerda and Hulda. Although 
their homes adjoined, these wives were in 
very different social stations, for Gerda was 
the wife of a very proud and very rich man, 
while Hulda was the wife of a humble ar- 
tisan. Gerda’s house was lofty and spa- 
cious and was adorned with most costly and 
most beautiful things, but Hulda’s house 
was a scantily furnished little cottage. The 
difference in their social stations did not, 
however, prevent Gerda and Hulda from be- 
ing very friendly in a proper fashion, and the 
two frequently exchanged visits while their 
husbands were away from home. 
One day Hulda was at Gerda’s house, and 
Gerda said: ‘‘] must show you the paint- 
ing we have just received from Paris. It is 


93 


SECOND BOOK 


the most beautiful painting in the world, and 
it cost a princely sum of money. 

And Gerda took Hulda into an adjoining 
chamber and uncovered the picture, and for 
a long time Hulda stood admiring it in si- 
lence. It was indeed a masterpiece of art. 
Such beauty of conception, such elegance of 
design, and such nicety in execution had 
never before been seen. It was a marvel of 
figure and color and effect. 

‘‘TIs it not the most beautiful picture in 
all the world ?”’ asked Gerda. 

‘«It is very beautiful,” replied Hulda, ‘‘ but 
it is not the most beautiful picture in all the 
world.” 

Then Gerda took Hulda into another 
chamber and showed her a jewelled music- 
box which the most cunning artisans in all 
Switzerland had labored for years to produce. 

“You shall hear it make music,” said 
Gerda. 

And Gerda touched the spring, and the 
music-box discoursed a harmony such as 
Hulda’s listening ears had never heard be- 
fore. It seemed as if a mountain brook, a 
summer zephyr, and a wild-wood bird were 


94 


OF TALES 


in the box vying with each other in sweet 
melodies. 

‘*Is it not the most beautiful music in all 
the world ?” asked Gerda. 

‘“‘It is very beautiful,” replied Hulda, ‘‘ but 
it is not the most beautiful music in all the 
world.” 

Then Gerda was sorely vexed. 

‘You said that of the picture,” said Gerda, 
‘and you say it of the music. Now tell 
me, Hulda, where is there to be found a 
more beautiful picture, and where more 
beautiful music P”’ 

‘*Come with me, Gerda,” said Hulda. 

And Hulda led Gerda from the stately man- 
sion into her own humble little cottage. 

‘« See there upon the wall near the door P”’ 
said Hulda. 

‘“T see nothing but stains and marks of 
dirt,” said Gerda. ‘‘ Where is the picture 
of which you spoke ?”’ 

‘‘They are the prints of a baby hand,” 
said Hulda. ‘*‘ You are a woman and a 
wife, and would you not exchange all the 
treasures of your palace for the finger-marks 
of a little hand upon your tinted walls?” 


95 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


And Gerda made no reply. 

Then Hulda went to a corner and drew 
forth a pair of quaint, tiny shoes and showed 
them to Gerda. 

‘¢ These are a baby’s shoes,” said Hulda, 
‘¢and make a music no art can equal. Other 
sounds may charm the ear and delight the 
senses, but the music of a baby’s shoe thrills 
the heart and brings the soul into commun- 
ion with the angels.”’ 

Then Gerda cried ‘‘’T is true, O Hulda! 
’t is true.”” And she bowed her head and 
wept. For she was childless. 


96 


oF 


Che Wooing of Miss Wopypit 


+ 





THE WOOING OF MISS WOPPIT 


T that time the camp was new. Most 
AN of what was called the valuable prop- 
erty was owned by an English syndicate, 
but there were many who had small claims 
scattered here and there on the mountain- 
side, and Three-fingered Hoover and | were 
rightly reckoned among these others. The 
camp was new and rough to the degree of 
uncouthness, yet, upon the whole, the little 
population was well disposed and orderly. 
But along in the spring of ’81, finding that 
we numbered eight hundred, with electric 
lights, telephones, a bank, a meeting-house, 
a race-track, and such-like modern improve- 
ments, we of Red Hoss Mountain became 
possessed of the notion to have a city gov- 
ernment; so nothing else would do but to 
proceed at once and solemnly to the choice 


9 


SECOND BOOK 


of a mayor, marshal, clerk, and other muni- 
cipal officers. The spirit of party politics 
(as it is known and as it controls things 
elsewhere) did not enter into the short and 
active canvass; there were numerous can- 
didates for each office, all were friends, and 
the most popular of the lot were to win. 
The. campaign was fervent but good-na- 
tured. 

I shall venture to say that Jim Woppit 
would never have been elected city marshal 
but for the potent circumstance that several 
of the most influential gentlemen in the 
camp were in love with Jim’s sister; that 
was Jim’s hold on these influences, and that 
was why he was elected. 

Yet Jim was what you ’d call a good fel- 
low —not that he was fair to look upon, for 
he was not; he was swarthy and heavy- 
featured and hulking; but he was a fair- 
speaking man, and he was always ready to 
help out the boys when they went broke or 
were elsewise in trouble. Yes, take him all 
in all, Jim Woppit was properly fairly pop- 
ular, although, as I shall always maintain, 
he would never have been elected city mar- 


100 


OF TALES 


shal over Buckskin and Red Drake and Salty 
Boardman if it had n’t been (as I have inti- 
mated) for the backing he got from Hoover, 
Jake Dodsley, and Barber Sam. These three 
men last named were influences in the 
camp, enterprising and respected citizens, 
with plenty of sand in their craws and plenty 
of stuff in their pockets; they loved Miss 
Woppit, and they were in honor bound to 
stand by the interests of the brother of that 
fascinating young woman. 

I was not surprised that they were smitten ; 
she might have caught me, too, had it not 
been for the little woman and the three kids 
back in the states. As handsome and as 
gentle a lady was Miss Woppit as ever 
walked a white pine floor—so very differ- 
ent from White River Ann, and Red Drake’s 
wife, and old man Edgar’s daughter, for they 
were magpies who chattered continually and 
maliciously, hating Miss Woppit because she 
wisely chose to have nothing to do with 
them. She lived with her brother Jim on the 
side-hill, just off the main road, in the cabin 
that Smooth Ephe Hicks built before he was 
‘thrown off his broncho into the gulch. It 


101 


SECOND BOOK 


was a pretty but lonesome place, about three- 
quarters of a mile from the camp, adjoining 
the claim which Jim Woppit worked in a 
lazy sort of way—Jim being fairly well 
fixed, having sold off a coal farm in Illinois 
just before he came west. 

In this little cabin abode Miss Woppit 
during the period of her wooing, a period 
covering, as I now recall, six or, may be, 
eight months. She was so pretty, so mod- 
est, so diligent, so homekeeping, and so shy, 
what wonder that those lonely, heart-hungry 
men should fall in love with her? In all the 
population of the camp the number of women 
was fewer than two score, and of this num- 
ber half were married, others were hopeless 
spinsters, and others were irretrievably bad, 
only excepting Miss Woppit, the prettiest, 
the tidiest, the gentlest of all. She was 
good, pure, and lovely in her womanliness; 
I shall not say that I envied — no, I respected 
Hoover and Dodsley and Barber Sam for be- 
ing stuck on the girl; you ’d have respected 
em, too, if you ’d seen her and—and them. 
But I did take it to heart because Miss Wop- 
pit seemed disinclined to favor any suit for 


102 


OF TALES 


her fair hand— particularly because she was 
by no means partial to Three-fingered 
Hoover, as square a man as ever struck pay 
dirt— dear old pardner, your honest eyes 
will never read these lines, between which 
speaks my lasting love for you! 

In the first place, Miss Woppit would never 
let the boys call on her of an evening unless 
her brother Jim was home; she had strict 
notions about that sort of thing which she 
would n’t waive. I reckon she was right 
according to the way society looks at these 
things, but it was powerful hard on Three- 
fingered Hoover and Jake Dodsley and Bar- 
ber Sam to be handicapped by etiquette when 
they had their bosoms chock full of love and 
were dying to tell the girl all about it. 

Jake Dodsley came a heap nearer than the 
others to letting Miss Woppit know what 
his exact feelings were. He was a poet of 
no mean order. What he wrote was print- 
ed regularly in Cad Davis’ Leadville paper 
under the head of ‘‘ Pearls of Pegasus,’’ and 
all us Red Hoss Mountain folks allowed that 
next to Willie Pabor of Denver our own 
Jake Dodsley had more of the afflatus in him 


103 





SECOND BOOK 


than any other living human poet. Hoover 
appreciated Jake’s genius, even though Jake 
was his rival. It was Jake’s custom to write 
poems at Miss Woppit — poems breathing 
the most fervid sentiment, all about love and 
bleeding hearts and unrequited affection. 
The papers containing these effusions he 
would gather together with rare diligence, 
and would send them, marked duly with a 
blue or a red pencil, to Miss Woppit. 

The poem which Hoover liked best was one 
entitled ‘‘ True Love,” and Hoover commht- 
ted it to memory — yes, he went even fur- 
ther; he hired Professor De Blanc (Casey’s 
piano player) to set it to music, and this 
office the professor discharged nobly, pro- 
ducing a simple but solemn-like melody 
which Hoover was wont to sing in feeling 
wise, poor, dear, misguided fellow that he 
was! Seems to me I can hear his big, honest, 
husky voice lifted up even now in rendition 
of that expression of his passion: 


Turrue love never dies — 
Like a river flowin’ 

In its course it gathers force, 
Broader, deeper growin’; 


104 


Ore Galeks 


Strength’nin’ in the storms ’at come, 
Triumphin’ in sorrer, 

Till To-day fades away 
In the las’ To-morrer. 

Wot though Time flies ? 

Turrue love never dies! 


Moreover, Three-fingered Hoover dis- 
coursed deftly upon the fiddle; at obligatos 
and things he was not much, but at real 
music he could not be beat. Called his fid- 
dle ‘‘ Mother,” because his own mother was 
dead, and being he loved her and had no 
other way of showing it, why, he named his 
fiddle after her. Three-fingered Hoover was 
full of just such queer conceits. 

Barber Sam was another music genius; 
his skill as a performer upon the guitar was 
one of the marvels of the camp. Nor had 
he an indifferent voice — Prof. De Blanc al- 
lowed that if Barber Sam’s voice had been 
cultured at the proper time—by which | 
suppose he meant in youth— Barber Sam 
would undoubtedly have become ‘‘one of 
the brightest constellations in the operatic 
firmament.” Moreover, Barber Sam had a 
winsome presence; a dapper body was he, 


105 


SECOND BOOK 


with a clear olive skin, soulful eyes, a noble 
mustache, and a splendid suit of black curly 
hair. His powers of conversation were re- 
markable — that fact, coupled with his play- 
ing the guitar and wearing plaid clothes, gave 
him the name of Barber Sam, for he was not 
really a barber; was only just like one. 

In the face of all their wooing, Miss Wop- 
pit hardened her heart against these three 
gentlemen, any one of whom the highest 
lady in the land might have been proud to 
catch. The girl was not inclined to affairs 
of the heart; she cared for no man but her 
brother Jim. What seemed to suit her best 
was to tend to things about the cabin — it 
was called The Bower, the poet Jake Dodsley 
having given it that name —to till the little 
garden where the hollyhocks grew, and to 
stroll away by herself on the hillside or down 
through Magpie Glen, beside the gulch. A 
queer, moodful creature she was; unlike 
other girls, so far as we were able to judge. 
She just doted on Jim, and Jim only — 
how she loved that brother you shall know 
presently. 

It was lucky that we organized a city 


106 


OF TALES 


government when we did. All communi- 
ties have streaks of bad luck, and it was just 
after we had elected a mayor, a marshal, and 
a full quota of officers that Red Hoss Moun- 
tain had a spell of experiences that seemed 
likely at one time to break up the camp. 
There ’s no telling where it all would have 
ended if we had n’t happened to have a corps 
of vigilant and brave men in office, deter- 
mined to maintain law and order at all per- 
sonal hazards. With a camp, same as ’tis 
with dogs, it is mighty unhealthy to get a 
bad name. 

The tidal wave of crime — if I may so term 
it— struck us three days after the election. I 
remember distinctly that all our crowd was 
in at Casey’s, soon after nightfall, indulging 
in harmless pleasantries, such as eating, 
drinking, and stud poker. Casey was telling 
how he had turned several cute tricks on 
election day, and his recital recalled to others 
certain exciting experiences they had had in 
the states; so, in an atmosphere of tobacco, 
beer, onions, wine, and braggadocio, and 
with the further delectable stimulus of seven- 
year-old McBrayer, the evening opened up 


107 


SECOND BOOK 


congenially and gave great promise. The 
boys were convivial, if not boisterous. But 
Jim Woppit, wearing the big silver star of 
his exalted office on his coat-front, was 
present in the interests of peace and order, 
and the severest respect was shown to the 
newly elected representative of municipal 
dignity and authority. 

All of a sudden, sharp, exacting, and stac- 
cato-like, the telephone sounded; seemed 
like it said, ‘‘ Quick —trouble—help!” By 
the merest chance —a lucky chance — Jim 
Woppit happened to be close by, and he 
reached for the telephone and answered the 
summons. 

‘Yes.” ‘OWherer”. ** Youtbetaatigae 
away!” 

That was what Jim said; of course, we 
heard only one side of the talk. But we 
knew that something — something remark- 
able had happened. Jim was visibly excited ; 
he let go the telephone, and, turning around, 
full over against us, he said, ‘‘ By ——, 
boys! the stage hez been robbed!” 

A robbery! The first in the Red Hoss 
Mountain country! Every man leapt to his 





108 


OF TALES 


feet and broke for the door, his right hand 
thrust instinctively back toward his hip 
pocket. There was blood in every eye. 

Hank Eaves’ broncho was tied in front of 
Casey’s. 

‘* Tell me where to go,” says Hank, ‘‘ and 
I ‘ILgit thar in a minnit. I’m fixed.” 

‘“No, Hank,” says Jim Woppit, com- 
manding like, ‘‘/ “2 go. I’m city marshal, 
an’ it’s my place to go— I’m the repersen- 
tive of law an’ order an’ I ’Il enforce ’em — 
damn me ef I don’t!” 

‘‘ That ’s bizness—Jim’s head ’s level!” 
cried Barber Sam. 

‘‘Let Jim have the broncho,” the rest of 
us counselled, and Hank had to give in, 
though he hated to, for he was spoiling for 
trouble — cussedest fellow for fighting you 
ever saw! Jim threw himself astride the 
spunky little broncho and was off like a 
flash. 

‘Come on, boys,” he called back to us; 
“‘come on, ez fast ez you kin to the glen!” 

Of course we could n’t anywhere near 
keep up with him; he was soon out of 
sight. But Magpie Glen was only abit away 


109 


SECOND BOOK 


—just a trifle up along the main road beyond 
the Woppit cabin. Encouraged by the ex- 
citement of the moment and by the whoop- 
ing of Jake Dodsley, who opined (for being a 
poet he always opined) that some evil might 
have befallen his cherished Miss Woppit — 
incited by these influences we made all haste. 
But Miss Woppit was presumably safe, for 
as we hustled by The Bower we saw the 
front room lighted up and the shadow of 
Miss Woppit’s slender figure flitting to and 
fro behind the white curtain. She was 
frightened almost to death, poor girl! 

It appeared from the story of Steve Bar- 
clay, the stage-driver, that along about eight 
o’clock the stage reached the glen —a dark- 
ish, dismal spot, and the horses, tired and 
sweaty, toiled almost painfully up the short 
stretch of rising ground. There were seven 
people in the stage: Mr. Mills, superintend- 
ent of the Royal Victoria mine; a travelling 
man (or drummer) from Chicago, one Pryor, 


’ an invalid tenderfoot, and four miners return- 


ing from a round-up at Denver. Steve 
Barclay was the only person outside. As 
the stage reached the summit of the little 


110 e 


OF TALES 


hill the figure of a man stole suddenly from 
the thicket by the roadside, stood directly 
in front of the leading horses, and com- 
manded a halt. The movement was so 
sudden as to terrify the horses, and the con- 
sequence was that, in shying, the brutes 
came near tipping the coach completely over. 
Barclay was powerless to act, for the assail- 
ant covered him with two murderous re- 
volvers and bade him throw up his hands. 

Then the men in the coach were ordered 
out and compelled to disgorge their valu- 
ables, the robber seeming to identify and to 
pay particular attention to Mr. Mills, the 
superintendent, who had brought with him 
from Denver a large sum of money. When 
the miners made a slight show of resistance 
the assailant called to his comrades in the 
bush to fire upon the first man who showed 
fight; this threat induced a wise resignation 
to the inevitable. Having possessed him- 
self in an incredibly short time of his booty, 
the highwayman backed into the thicket 
and quickly made off. The procedure from 
first to last occupied hardly more than five 
minutes. 


SECOND BOOK 


The victims of this outrage agreed that 
the narrative as I have given it was in the 
main correct. Barclay testified that he saw 
the barrels of rifles gleaming from the thicket 
when the outlaw called to his confederates. 
On the other hand, Mr. Mills, who was the 
principal loser by the affair, insisted that the 
outlaw did his work alone, and that his com- 
mand to his alleged accomplices was merely 
a bluff. There was, too, a difference in the 
description given of the highwayman, some 
of the party describing him as a short, thick- 
set man, others asserting that he was tall 
and slender. Of his face no sight had been 
obtained, for he wore a half-mask and a 
large slouch hat pulled well down over his 
ears. But whatever dispute there may have 
been as to details, one thing was sure — 
robbery had been done, and the robber had 
fled with four gold watches and cash to 
the amount of, say, two thousand five hun- 
dred dollars. 

Recovering betimes from their alarm and 
bethinking themselves of pursuit of the out- 
laws, the helpless victims proceeded to push 
into camp to arouse the miners. It was 


I12 


OF TALES 


then that Barclay discovered that the tire of 
one of the front wheels had come off in the 
jolt and wrench caused by the frightened 
horses. As no time was to be lost, Barclay 
suggested that somebody run down the road 
to Woppit’s cabin and telephone to camp. 
Mr. Mills and the Chicago drummer under- 
took this errand. After considerable parley 
—for Miss Woppit wisely insisted upon be- 
ing convinced of her visitors’ honorable in- 
tentions —these two men were admitted, 
and so the alarm was transmitted to Casey’s, 
Miss Woppit meanwhile exhibiting violent 
alarm lest her brother Jim should come to 
harm in pursuing the fugitives. 

As for Jim Woppit, he never once lost his 
head. When the rest of us came up to the 
scene of the robbery he had formed a plan 
of pursuit. It was safe, he said, to take for 
granted that there was a gang of the out- 
laws. They would undoubtedly strike for 
Eagle Pass, since there was no possible way 
of escape in the opposite direction, the gulch, 
deep and wide, following the main road 
close into camp. Tenofus should go with 
him—ten of the huskiest miners mounted 


113: 


SECOND BOOK 


upon the stanchest bronchoes the camp 
could supply. ‘‘ We shall come up with 
the hellions before mornin’,”’ said he, and 
then he gritted his teeth significantly. 

A brave man and acool man, you 'Il allow; 
good-hearted, too, for in the midst of all the 
excitement he thought of his sister, and he 
said, almost tenderly, to Three-fingered 
Hoover: ‘‘I can trust you, pardner, I know. 
Go up to the cabin and tell her it’s all right— 
that I ‘ll be back to-morrow and that she 
must n’t be skeered. And if she is skeered, 
why, you kind o’ hang round there to-night 
and act like you knew everything was all 
OIC 

‘But may be Hoover ’Il be lonesome,” 
suggested Barber Sam. He was a sly dog. 

‘‘Then you go ’long too,” said Jim Wop- 
pit." Tellpier Said'so 

Three-fingered Hoover would rather —a 
good deal rather—have gone alone. Yet, 
with all that pardonable selfishness, he rec- 
ognized a certain impropriety in calling alone 
at night upon an unprotected female. So 
Hoover accepted, though not gayly, of Bar- 
ber Sam’s escort, and in a happy moment it 


114 





OF TALES 


occurred to the twain that it might bea pious 
idea to take their music instruments with 
them. Hardly, therefore, had Jim Woppit 
and his posse flourished out of camp when 
Three-fingered Hoover and Barber Sam, 
carrying Mother and the famous guitar, re- 
turned along the main road toward The 
Bower. 

When the cabin came in view — the cabin 
on the side hill with hollyhocks standing 
guard round it— one of those subtle fancies 
in which Barber Sam’s active brain abound- 
ed possessed Barber Sam. It was to con- 
vey to Miss Woppit’s ear good tidings upon 
the wings of music. ‘‘ Suppose we play 
SAll si Well’r?* suggested Barber Sam. 
‘‘That Il let her know that everything ’s 
Oak.” 

‘‘Just the thing!” answered Three-fin- 
gered Hoover, and then he added, and he 
meant it: ‘‘ Durned if you ain’t jest about as 
slick as they make ’em, pardner!”’ 

The combined efforts of the guitar and 
Mother failed, however, to produce any man- 
ifestation whatever, so far as Miss Woppit 
was concerned. The light in the front room 


115 


SECOND BOOK 


of the cabin glowed steadily, but no shadow 
of the girl’s slender form was to be seen upon 
the white muslin curtain. So the two men 
went up the gravelly walk and knocked firm- 
ly but respectfully at the door. 

They had surmised that Miss Woppit 
might be asleep, but, oh, no, not she. She 
was not the kind of sister to be sleeping 
when her brother was in possible danger. 
The answer to the firm but respectful knock- 
ing was immediate. 

‘*Who’s there and what do you want?” 
asked Miss Woppit in tremulous tones, with 
her face close to the latch. There was no 
mistaking the poor thing’s alarm. 

‘It’s only us gents,” answered Three-fin- 
ewered Hoover, ‘‘me an’ Barber Sam; did n’t 
you hear us serenadin’ you a minnit agoP 
We ’ve come to tell you that everything ’s 
all right — Jim told us to come —he told us 
to tell you not to be skeered, and if you wuz 
skeered how we gents should kind of hang 
round here to-night; be you skeered, Miss 
WoppitP Your voice sounds sort o’ like 
you wuz.” 

Having now unbolted and unlatched and 

116 


OF TALES 


opened the door, Miss Woppit confessed that 
she was indeed alarmed; the pallor of her 
face confirmed that confession. Where was 
Jim? Had they caught the robbers? Was 
there actually no possibility of Jim’s getting 
shot or stabbed or hurt P. These and similar 
questions did the girl put to the two men, 
who, true to their trust, assured the timor- 
ous creature in well-assumed tones of con- 
fidence that her brother could n’t get hurt, 
no matter how hard he might try. 

To make short of a long tale, I will say 
that the result of the long parley, in which 
Miss Woppit exhibited a most charming 
maidenly embarrassment, was that Three- 
fingered Hoover and Barber Sam were ad- 
mitted to the cabin for the night. It was 
understood —nay, it was explicitly set forth, 
that they should have possession of the front 
room wherein they now stood, while Miss 
Woppit was to retire to her apartment be- 
yond, which, according to popular fame and 
in very truth, served both as a kitchen and 
Miss Woppit’s bedroom, there being only 
two rooms in the cabin. 

This front room had in it a round table, a 


117 


SECOND BOOK 


half-dozen chairs, a small sheet-iron stove, 
and a rude kind of settee that served Jim 
Woppit for a bed by night. There were 
some pictures hung about on the walls — 
neither better nor poorer than the pictures 
invariably found in the homes of miners. 
There was the inevitable portrait of John C. 
Fremont and the inevitable print of the path- 
finder planting his flag on the summit of 
Pike’s Peak; a map of Colorado had been 
ingeniously invested with an old looking- 
glass frame, and there were several cheap 
chromos of flowers and fruit, presumably 
Miss Woppit’s contributions to the art stores 
of the household. Upon the centre table, 
which was covered with a square green 
cloth, stooda large oil lamp, whose redolence 
and constant spluttering testified pathetically 
to its neglect. There were two books on the 
table — viz., an old ‘‘ Life of Kit Carson” and 
a bound file of the ‘‘ Police News,” abound- 
ing, as you will surmise, in atrocious delin- 
eations of criminal life. We can understand 
that a volume of police literature would not 
be out of place in the home of an executive 
of the law. 
118 


OFVPRABES 


Miss Woppit, though hardly reassured by 
the hearty protestations of Hoover and Bar- 
ber Sam as to her brother’s security, hoped 
that all would be well. With evident diffi- 
dence she bade her guests make themselves at 
home; there was plenty of wood in the box 
behind the stove and plenty of oil in the 
tell-tale lamp; she fetched a big platter of 
crackers, a mammoth cut of cheese, a can 
of cove oysters, and a noble supply of condi- 
ments. Did the gents reckon they would be 
comfortable P The gents smiled and bowed 
obsequiously, neither, however, indulging 
in conversation to any marked degree, for, 
as was quite natural, each felt in the pres- 
ence of his rival a certain embarrassment 
which we can fancy Miss Woppit respected 
if she did not enjoy it. 

Finally Miss Woppit retired to her own 
delectable bower in the kitchen with the 
parting remark that she would sleep in a 
sense of perfect security; this declaration 
flattered her protectors, albeit she had no 
sooner closed the door than she piled the 
kitchen woodbox and her own small trunk 
against it—a proceeding that touched 


119 


SECOND BOOK 


Three-fingered Hoover deeply and evoked 
from him a tender expression as to the nat- 
ural timidity of womankind, which senti- 
ment the crafty Barber Sam instantly in- 
dorsed in a tone loud enough for the lady to 
hear. 

It is presumed that Miss Woppit slept that 
night. Following the moving of that 
woodbox and that small trunk there was no 
sound of betrayal if Miss Woppit did not 
sleep. Once the men in the front room were 
startled by the woman’s voice crying out, 
‘* Jim —oh, Jim!” in tones of such terror as 
to leave no doubt that Miss Woppit slept 
and dreamed frightful dreams. 

The men _ themselves were wakeful 
enough; they were there to protect a lady, 
and they were in no particular derelict to 
that trust. Sometimes they talked together 
in the hushed voices that beseem a sick- 
chamber; anon they took up their music 
apparata and thrummed and sawed there- 
from such harmonies as would seem likely 
to lull to sweeter repose the object of their 
affection in the adjoining chamber beyond 
the woodbox and the small trunk; the cir- 


120 


OF TALES 


cumstance of the robbery they discussed in 
discreet tones, both agreeing that the high- 
waymen were as good as dead by this time. 
We can fancy that the twain were distinctly 
annoyed upon discovering in one corner of 
the room, during their vigils, a number of 
Leadville and Denver newspapers containing 
sonnets, poems, odes, triolets, and such like, 
conspicuously marked with blue or red pen- 
cil tracings and all aimed, in a poetic sense, 
at Miss Woppit’s virgin heart. This was 
the subtle work of the gifted Jake Dodsley! 
This was his ingenious way of storming the 
citadel of the coy maiden’s affections. 

The discovery led Barber Sam to venti- 
late his opinion of the crafty Dodsley, an 
opinion designedly pitched in a high and 
stentorian key and expressive of everything 
but compliment. On the contrary, Three- 
fingered Hoover —a guileless man, if ever 
there was one — stood bravely up for Jake, 
imputing this artifice of his to a passion 
which knows no ethics so far as competition 
is concerned. It was true, as Hoover ad- 
mitted, that poets seldom make good hus- 
bands, but, being an exceptionally good poet, 


Va 





SECOND BOOK 


fake might prove also an exception in mat- 
rimony, providing he found a wife at his 
time of life. But as to the genius of the man 
there could be no question; not even the 
poet Pabor had in all his glory done a poem 
so fine as that favorite poem of Hoover's, 
which, direct from the burning types of the 
‘Leadville Herald,’’ Hoover had committed 
to the tablets of his memory and was wont 
to repeat or sing on all occasions to the 
agerandizement of Jake Dodsley’s fame. 
Gradually the trend of the discussion led to 
the suggestion that Hoover sing this favor- 
ite poem, and this he did in a soothing, soul- » 
ful voice, Barber Sam accompanying him 
upon that wondrous guitar. What a pic- 
ture that must have been! Even upon the 
mountain-sides of that far-off West human 
hearts respond tenderly to the touch of love. 


— Wot though time flies ? 
Turrue love never dies! 


That honest voice—oh, could I hear it 
now! That honest face — oh, could I see it 
again! And, oh, that once more | could feel 


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the clasp of that brave hand and the cordial 
grace of that dear, noble presence! 

It was in the fall of the year; the nights 
were long, yet this night sped quickly. Long 
before daybreak significant sounds in the 
back room betokened that Miss Woppit was 
up and moving around. Through the closed 
door and from behind the improvised ram- 
part of wood-box and small trunk the young 
lady informed her chivalric protectors that 
they might go home, prefacing this permis- 
sion, however, with a solicitous inquiry as to 
whether anything had been heard from 
Brother Jim and his posse. 

Jim Woppit and his men must have had 
a hard ride of it. They did not show up in 
camp until eleven o’clock that day, and a 
tougher-looking outfit youneversaw. They 
had scoured the surrounding country with 
the utmost diligence, yet no trace whatever 
had they discovered of the outlaws; the 
wretches had disappeared so quickly, so 
mysteriously, that it seemed hard to believe 
that they had indeed existed. The crime, 
so boldly and so successfully done, was of 
course the one theme of talk, of theory, and 


123 


SECOND BOOK 


of speculation in all that region for the con- 
ventional period of nine days. And then it 
appeared to be forgotten, or, at least, men 
seldom spoke of it, and presently it came to 
be accepted as the popular belief that the 
robbery had been committed by a gang of 
desperate tramps, this theory being con- 
firmed by a certain exploit subsequently in 
the San Juan country, an exploit wherein 
three desperate tramps assaulted the tri- 
weekly road-hack, and, making off with their 
booty, were ultimately taken and strung up 
to a convenient tree. 

Still, the reward of one thousand dollars 
offered by the city government of Red Hoss 
Mountain for information leading to the ar- 
rest of the glen robbers was not withdrawn, 
and there were those in the camp who quietly 
persevered in the belief that the outrage had 
been done by parties as yet undiscovered, if 
not unsuspected. Mr. Mills, the superinten- 
dent of the Royal Victoria, had many a secret 
conference with Jim Woppit, and it finally 
leaked out that the cold, discriminating, and 
vigilant eye of eternal justice was riveted 
upon Steve Barclay, the stage-driver. Few 


124 


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of us suspected Steve; he was a good-na- 
tured, inoffensive fellow; it seemed the idlest 
folly to surmise that he could have been in 
collusion with the highwaymen. But Mr. 
Mills had his own ideas on the subject; he 
was aman of positive convictions, and, hav- 
ing pretty nearly always demonstrated that 
he was in the right, it boded ill for Steve 
Barclay when Mr. Mills made up his mind 
that Steve must have been concerned in 
one way or another in that Magpie Glen 
crime. 

The wooing of Miss Woppit pursued the 
even tenor of its curious triple way. Wars 
and rumors of wars served merely to imbue 
it with certain heroic fervor. Jake Dodsley’s 
contributions to the ‘‘Leadville Herald” and 
to Henry Feldwisch’s Denver ‘‘Inter-Ocean,” 
though still aimed at the virgin mistress of 
The Bower, were pitched in a more exalted 
key and breathed a spirit that defied all hu- 
man dangers. What though death confront- 
ed the poet and the brutal malice of noc- 
turnal marauders threatened the object of his 
adoration, what, short of superhuman inter- 
vention, should prevent the poet from baf- 


125 


SECOND BOOK 


fling all hostile environments and placing the 
queen of his heart securely upon his throne 
beside him, etc., etc.? We all know how 
the poets go it when they once get started. 
The Magpie Glen affair gave Jake Dodsley a 
new impulse, and marked copies of his 
wonderful effusions found their way to the 
Woppit cabin in amazing plenty and with 
exceeding frequency. In a moment of vin- 
dictive bitterness was Barber Sam heard to 
intimate that the robbery was particularly to 
be regretted for having served to open the 
sluices of Jake Dodsley’s poetic soul. 

’T was the purest comedy, this wooing 
was; through it all the finger of fate traced a 
deep line of pathos. The poetic Dodsley, 
with his inexhaustible fund of rhyme, of op- 
timism and of subtlety; Barber Sam, with his 
envy, his jealousy, and his garrulity; Three- 
fingered Hoover with his manly yearning, 
timorousness, tenderness, and awkwardness 
—these three in a seemingly vain quest of 
love reciprocated; the girl, fair, lonely, duti- 
ful — filled with devotion to her brother and 
striving, amid it all, to preserve a proper 
womanly neutrality toward these other men; 

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there was in this little comedy among those 
distant hills so much of real pathos. 

As for Jim Woppit, he showed not the 
slightest partiality toward any one of the 
three suitors; with all he was upon terms of 
equal friendship. It seemed as if Jim had 
made up his mind in the beginning to let 
the best one win; it was a free, fair, square 
race, so far as Jim was concerned, and that 
was why Jim always had stanch backers in 
Jake Dodsley, Barber Sam, and Three-fingered 
Hoover. 

My sympathies were all with Hoover; he 
and I were pardners. He loved the girl in 
his own beautiful, awkward way. He sel- 
dom spoke of her to me, for he was not the 
man to unfold wnat his heart treasured. He 
was not an envious man, yet sometimes he 
would tell how he regretted that early edu- 
cation had not fallen to his lot, for in that 
case he, too, might have been a poet. Mo- 
ther—the old red fiddle —was his solace. 
Coming home to our cabin late of nights I’d 
hear him within scraping away at that tune 
De Blanc had written for him, and he be- 
lieved what Mother sung to him in her 


Sy 


SECOND BOOK 


squeaky voice of the deathlessness of true 
love. And many atime —I can tell it now — 
many a time in the dead of night I have 
known him to steal out of the cabin with 
Mother and go up the main road to the gate- 
way of The Bower, where, in moonlight or 
in darkness (it mattered not to him), he 
would repeat over and over again that melan- 
choly tune, hoping thereby to touch the sen- 
sibilities of the lady of his heart. 

In the early part of February there was a 
second robbery. This time the stage was 
overhauled at Lone Pine, a ranch five miles 
beyond thecamp. The details of this affair 
were similar to those of the previous busi- 
ness in the glen. A masked man sprang 
from the roadside, presented two revolvers 
at Steve Barclay’s head, and called upon all 
within the stage to come out, holding up 
their hands. The outrage was successfully 
carried out, but the booty was inconsider- 
able, somewhat less than eight hundred dol- 
lars falling into the highwayman’s hands. 
The robber and his pals fled as before; the 
time that elapsed before word could be got to 
camp facilitated the escape of the outlaws. 

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A two days’ scouring of the surrounding 
country revealed absolutely no sign or trace 
of the fugitives. But it was pretty evident 
now that the two crimes had been com- 
mitted by a gang intimately acquainted 
with, if not actually living in, the locality. 
Confirmation of this was had when five 
weeks later the stage was again stopped and 
robbed at Lone Pine under conditions ex- 
actly corresponding with the second robbery. 
The mystery baffled the wits of all. Intense 
excitement prevailed; a reward of five thou- 
sand dollars was advertised for the appre- 
hension of the outlaws; the camp fairly 
seethed with rage, and the mining country 
for miles around was stirred by a determi- 
nation to hunt out and kill the miscreants. 
Detectives came from Denver and snooped 
around. Everybody bought extra guns and 
laid in a further supply of ammunition. Yet 
the stage robbers — bless you! nobody could 
find hide or hair of ’em. 

Miss Woppit stood her share of the excite- 
ment and alarm as long as she could, and 
then she spoke her mind to Jim. He told 
us about it. Miss Woppit owed a certain 


129 


SECOND BOOK 


duty to Jim, she said; was it not enough for 
her to be worried almost to death with fears 
for his safety as marshal of thecamp? Was 
it fair that in addition to this haunting terror 
she should be constantly harassed by a con- 
sciousness of her own personal danger P She 
Was a woman and alone in a cabin some 
distance from any other habitation; one crime 
had been committed within a step of that 
isolated cabin; what further crime might not 
be attempted by the miscreants P 

‘‘The girl is skeered,” said Jim Woppit, 
‘fand I don’t know that I wonder at it. 
Women folks is nervous-like, anyhow, and 
these doings of late hev been enough to 
worrit the strongest of us men.” 

‘“Why, there ain’t an hour in the day,” 
testified Casey, ‘‘that Miss Woppit don’t 
telephone down here to ask whether every- 
thing is all right, and whether Jim is O. K.” 

‘“] know it,” said. Jim... So The sears 
skeered,and I’d oughter thought of it before. 
I must bring her down into the camp to live. 
Jest ez soon ez I can git the lumber I ’ll put 
up a cabin on the Bush lot next to the bank.” 

Jim owned the Bush lot, as it was called. 

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He had talked about building a store there 
in the spring, but we all applauded this sud- 
den determination to put up a cabin instead, 
a home for his sister. That was a determi- 
nation that bespoke a thoughtfulness and a 
tenderness that ennobled Jim Woppit in our 
opinions. It was the square thing. 

Barber Sam, ever fertile in suggestion, al- 
‘lowed that it might be a pious idea for Miss 
Woppit to move down to the Mears House 
and board there until the new cabin was 
built. Possibly the circumstance that Bar- 
ber Sam himself boarded at the Mears House 
did not inspire this suggestion. At any 
rate, the suggestion seemed a good one, but 
Jim duly reported that his sister thought it 
better to stay in the old place till the new 
place was ready; she had stuck it out so 
far, and she would try to stick it out the lit- 
tle while longer yet required. 

This ultimatum must have interrupted the 
serenity of Barber Sam’s temper; he broke 
his E string that evening, and half an hour 
later somebody sat down on the guitar and 
cracked it irremediably. 

And now again it was spring. Nothing 


131 


SECOND BOOK 


can keep away the change in the season. In 
the mountain country the change comes 
swiftly, unheralded. One day it was bleak 
and cheerless; the next day brought with it 
the grace of sunshine and warmth; as if by 
magic, verdure began to deck the hillsides, 
and we heard again the cheerful murmur of 
waters in the gulch. The hollyhocks about 
The Bower shot up once more and put forth 
their honest, rugged leaves. In this divine 
springtime, who could think evil, who do it P 

Sir Charles Lackington, president of the 
Royal Victoria mine, was now due at the 
camp. He represented the English syndi- 
cate that owned the large property. _ Il 
health compelled him to live at Colorado 
Springs. Once a year he visited Red Hoss 
Mountain, and always in May. It was an- 
nounced that he would come to the camp 
by Tuesday’s stage. That stage was robbed 
by that mysterious outlaw and his gang. 
But Sir Charles happened not to be among 
the passengers. 

This robbery (the fourth altogether) took 
place at a point midway between Lone Pine 
and the glen. The highwayman darted upon 


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the leading horses as they were descending 
the hill and so misdirected their course that 
the coach was overturned in the brush at 
the roadside. In the fall Steve Barclay’s 
right arm was broken. With consummate 
coolness the highwayman (now positively 
described as a thick-set man, with a beard) 
proceeded to relieve his victims of their val- 
uables, but not until he had called, as was 
his wont, to his confederates in ambush to 
keep the passengers covered with their rifles. 
The outlaw inquired which of his victims 
was Sir Charles Lackington, and evinced rage 
when he learned that that gentleman was 
not among the passengers by coach. 

It happened that Jake Dodsley was one of 
the victims of the highwayman’s greed. He 
had been to Denver and was bringing home 
a pair of elaborate gold earrings which he 
intended for—for Miss Woppit, of course. 
Poets have deeper and stronger feelings than 
common folk. Jake Dodsley’s poetic nature 
rebelled when he found himself deprived of 
those lovely baubles intended for the idol of 
his heart. So, no sooner had the outlaw re- 
treated to the brush than Jake Dodsley 


133 


SECOND BOOK 


whipped out his gun and took to the same 
brush, bent upon an encounter with his des- 
poiler. Poor Jake never came from the 
brush alive. The rest heard the report of a 
rifle shot, and when, some time later, they 
found Jake, he was dead, with a rifle ball in 
his head. 

The first murder done and the fourth rob- 
bery! Yet the mystery was as insoluble as 
ever. Of what avail was the rage of eight 
hundred miners, the sagacity of the indefat- 
igable officers of the law, and the united ef- 
forts of the vengeance-breathing population 
throughout the country round about to hunt 
the murderers downP Why, it seemed as 
if the devil himself were holding justice up 
to ridicule and scorn. 

We had the funeral next day. Sir Charles 
Lackington came by private wagon in the 
morning; his daughter was with him. Their 
escape from participation in the affair of the 
previous day naturally filled them with 
thanksgiving, yet did not abate their sym- 
pathy for the rest of us in our mourning over 
the dead poet. Sir Charles was the first to 
suggest a fund for a monument to poor Jake, 


134 


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and he headed the subscription list with one 
hundred dollars, cash down. A noble fu- 
neral it was; everybody cried; at the grave 
Three-fingered Hoover recited the poem 
about true love and Jim Woppit threw in a 
wreath of hollyhock leaves which his sister 
had sent—the poor thing was too sick to 
come herself. She must have cared more 
for Jake than she had ever let on, for she 
took to her bed when she heard that he was 
dead. 

Amid the deepest excitement further 
schemes for the apprehension of the crimi- 
nals who had so long baffled detection were 
set on foot and —but this is not a story of 
crime; it is the story ofa wooing, and I must 
not suffer myself to be drawn away from the 
narrative of that wooing. With the death 
of the poet Dodsley one actor fell out of the 
little comedy. And yet another stepped in 
at once. You would hardly guess who it 
was—Mary Lackington. This seventeen- 
year-old girl favored her father in personal 
appearance and character; she was of the 
English type of blonde beauty —a light- 
hearted, good-hearted, sympathetic creature 


135 





SECOND BOOK 


who recognized it as her paramount duty to 
minister to her invalid father. He had been 
her instructor in books, he had conducted 
her education, he had directed her amuse- 
ments, he had been her associate — in short, 
father and daughter were companions, and 
from that sweet companionship both derived 
a solace and wisdom precious above all 
things else. Mary Lackington was, perhaps, 
in some particulars mature beyond her years; 
the sweetness, the simplicity, and the guile- 
lessness of her character was the sweetness, 
the simplicity, and the guilelessness of child- 
hood. Fairandinnocent, this womanly maid- 
en came into the comedy of that mountain 
wooing. 

Three-fingered Hoover had never been re- 
garded an artful man, but now, all at once, for 
the first time in his life, he practised a subtle- 
ty. He became acquainted with Mary Lack- 
ington; I am not sure that he did not meet 
Sir Charles at the firemen’s muster in Pueblo 
some years before. Getting acquainted with 
Miss Mary was no hard thing; the girl flitted 
whithersoever she pleased, and she enjoyed 
chatting with the miners, whom she found 

136 


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charmingly fresh, original, and manly, and as 
for the miners, they simply adored Miss 
Mary. Sir Charles owed his popularity 
largely to his winsome daughter. 

Mary was not long in discovering that 
Three-fingered Hoover had a little romance 
all of his own. Maybe some of the other 
boys told her about it. At any rate, Mary 
was charmed, and without hesitation she 
commanded Hoover to confess all. How 
the big, awkward fellow ever got through 
with it I for my part can’t imagine, but tell 
her he did—yes, he fairly unbosomed his 
secret, and Mary was still more delighted 
and laughed and declared that it was the 
loveliest love story she had ever heard. 
Right here was where Hoover’s first and 
only subtlety came in. 

‘And now, Miss Mary,” says he, ‘‘ you 
can do me a good turn, and I hope you will 
do it. Get acquainted with the lady and 
work it up with her for me. Tell her that 
you know —not that! told you, but that you 
happen to have found it out, that I like her 
—like her better ’n anybody else; that I’m 
the pure stuff; that if anybody ties to me 


137 


SECOND BOOK 


they can find me thar every time and can bet 
their last case on me! Don’t lay it on too 
thick, but sort of let on I’m O. K. You 
women understand such things—if you ’Il 
help me locate this claim I’m sure every- 
thing ‘Il pan out all right; will ye P”’ 

The bare thought of promoting a love af- 
fair set Mary nearly wild with enthusiasm. 
She had read of experiences of this kind, but 
of course she had never participated in any. 
She accepted the commission gayly yet 
earnestly. She would seek Miss Woppit at 
once, and she would be so discreet in her 
tactics — yes, she would be as artful as the 
most skilled diplomat at the court of love. 

Had she met Miss Woppit? Yes, and 
then again no. She had been rambling in 
the glen yesterday and, coming down the 
road, had stopped near the pathway leading 
to The Bower to pick a wild flower of ex- 
ceeding brilliancy. About to resume her 
course to camp she became aware that an- 
other stood near her. A woman, having 
passed noiselessly from the cabin, stood in 
the gravelly pathway looking upon the girl 
with an expression wholly indefinable. The 

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woman was young, perhaps twenty; she 
was tall and of symmetrical form, though 
rather stout; her face was comely, perchance 
a bit masculine in its strength of features, 
and the eyes were shy, but of swift and cer- 
tain glance, as if instantaneously they read 
through and through the object upon which 
they rested. 

‘“‘ You frightened me,” said Mary Lacking- 
ton, and she had been startled, truly; ‘‘I 
did not hear you coming, and so | was fright- 
ened when I saw you standing there.” 

To this explanation the apparition made 
no answer, but continued to regard Mary 
steadfastly with the indefinable look — an 
expression partly of admiration, partly of 
distrust, partly of appeal, perhaps. Mary 
Lackington grew nervous; she did therefore 
the most sensible thing she could have done 
under the circumstances — she proceeded 
on her way homeward. 

This, then, was Mary’s first meeting with 
Miss Woppit. Not particularly encouraging 
to a renewal of the acquaintance; yet now 
that Mary had so delicate and so important 
a mission to execute she burned to know 


139 


SECOND BOOK 


more of the lonely creature on that hill side, 
and she accepted with enthusiasm, as I have 
said, the charge committed to her by the 
enamored Hoover. 

Sir Charles and his daughter remained at 
the camp about three weeks. In that time 
Mary became friendly with Miss Woppit, as 
intimate, in fact, as it was possible for any- 
body to become with her. Mary found her- 
self drawn strangely and inexplicably toward 
the woman. The fascination which Miss 
Woppit exercised over her was altogether 
new to Mary; here was a woman of lowly 
birth and in lowly circumstances, illiterate, 
neglected, lonely, yet possessing a charm — 
an indefinable charm which was distinct and 
potent, yet not to be analyzed — yes, hardly 
recognizable by any process of cool mental 
dissection, but magically persuasive in the 
subtlety of its presence and influence. Mary 
had sought to locate, to diagnose that charm; 
did it lie in her sympathy with the woman’s 
lonely lot, or was it the romance of the 
wooing, or was it the fascination of those 
restless, searching eyes that Mary so often 
looked up to find fixed upon her with an 


140 


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expression she could not forget and could 
not define P 

I incline to the belief that all these things 
combined to constitute the charm whereof | 
speak. Miss Woppit had not the beauty 
that would be likely to attract one of her own 
sex; she had none of the sprightliness and 
wit of womankind, and she seemed to be 
wholly unacquainted with the little arts, 
accomplishments and vanities in which wo- 
men invariably find amusement. She was 
simply a strange, lonely creature who had 
accepted valorously her duty to minister to 
the comfort of her brother; the circumstances 
of her wooing invested her name and her 
lot with a certain pleasing romance; she 
was a woman, she was loyal to her sense of 
duty, and she was, to a greater degree than 
most women, a martyr — herein, perhaps, 
lay the secret to the fascination Miss Wop- 
pit had for Mary Lackington. 

At any rate, Mary and Miss Woppit be- 
came, to all appearances, fast friends; the 
wooing of Miss Woppit progressed apace, 
and the mystery of those Red Hoss Mountain 
crimes became more and — but | have al- 


141 


SECOND BOOK 


ready declared myself upon /¢hat point and | 
shall say no more thereof except so far as 
bears directly upon my story, which is, I 
repeat, of a wooing, and not of crime. 

Three-fingered Hoover had every confi- 
dence in the ultimate success of the scheme 
to which Miss Mary had become an enthusi- 
astic party. In occasional pessimistic moods 
he found himself compelled to confess to him- 
self that the reports made by Miss Mary were 
not altogether such as would inspire enthu- 
siasm in the bosom of a man less optimistic 
than he — Hoover — was. 

To tell the truth, Mary found the task of 
doing Hoover’s courting for him much more 
difficult than she had ever fancied a task of 
that kind could be. In spite of her unac- 
quaintance with theartifices of the world Miss 
Woppit exhibited the daintiest skill at turn- 
ing the drift of the conversation whenever, 
by the most studied tact, Mary Lackington 
succeeded in bringing the conversation 
around to a point where the virtues of Three- 
fingered Hoover, as a candidate for Miss 
Woppit’s esteem, could be expatiated upon. 
From what Miss Woppit implied rather than 


142 


OPS TALES 


said, Mary took it that Miss Woppit esteemed 
Mr. Hoover highly as a gentleman and as a 
friend —that she perhaps valued his friend- 
ship more than she did that of any other 
man in the world, always excepting her 
brother Jim, of course. 

Miss Mary reported all this to Hoover 
much more gracefully than I have put it, for, 
being a woman, her sympathies would natu- 
rally exhibit themselves with peculiar ten- 
derness when conveying to a lover certain 
information touching his inamorata. 

There were two subjects upon which Miss 
Woppit seemed to love to hear Mary talk. 
One was Mary herself and the other was Jim 
Woppit. Mary regarded this as being very 
natural. Why should n’t this women in 
exile pine to hear of the gay, beautiful world 
outside her pent horizone So Mary told 
her all about the sights she had seen, the 
places she had been to, the people she had 
met, the books she had read, the dresses 
she — but, no, Miss Woppit cared noth- 
ing for that kind of gossip—now you Il 
agree that she was a remarkable woman, 
not to want to hear all about the lovely 


143 


SECOND BOOK 


dresses Mary had seen and could describe 
so eloquently. 

Then again, as to Jim, was n’tit natural 
that Miss Woppit, fairly wrapped up in that 
brother, should be anxious to hear the good 
opinion that other folk had of hime Did the 
miners like Jim, she asked — what did they 
say, and what did Sir Charles say? Miss 
Woppit was fertile in questionings of this 
kind, and Mary made satisfactory answers, 
for she was sure that everybody liked Jim, 
and as for her father, why, he had taken Jim 
right into his confidence the day he came 
to the camp. 

Sir Charles had indeed made a confidant 
of Jim. One day he called him into his 
room at the Mears House. ‘‘ Mr. City Mar- 
shal,” said Sir Charles, in atone that implied 
secrecy, ‘‘I have given it out that I shall 
leave the camp for home day after to- 
morrow.” 

‘*Yes, I had heerd talk,” answered Jim 
Woppit. ‘‘ You are going by the stage.” 

‘‘Certainly, by the stage,” said Sir Charles, 
‘but not day after to-morrow; I go to- 
morrow.” 


144 


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‘¢ To-morrow, sir?” 

‘‘To-morrow,” repeated Sir Charles. 
‘The coach leaves here, as I am told, at 
eleven o'clock. At four we shall arrive at 
Wolcott Siding, there to catch the down ex- 
press, barring delay. I say ‘barring delay,’ 
and it is with a view to evading the proba- 
bility of delay that I have given out that | 
am to leave on acertain day, whereas, in 
fact, I shall leave a day earlier. You under- 
stand P” 

ieevou bet. !l) do, saidsjim.. “‘ You, are 
afraid of — of the robbers P” 

‘‘] shall have some money with me,” an- 
swered Sir Charles, ‘‘ but that alone does 
not make me desirous of eluding the high- 
waymen. My daughter —a fright of that 
kind might lead to the most disastrous re- 
sults.” 

Correct,” said jim. 

‘Sol have planned this secret departure,’ 
continued Sir Charles. ‘‘No one in the 
camp now knows of it but you and me, and 
I have a favor —a distinct favor — to ask of 
you in pursuance of this plan. It is that you 
and a posse of the bravest men you can pick 


145 


’ 


SECOND BOOK 


shall accompany the coach, or, what is per- 
haps better, precede the coach by a few 
minutes, so as to frighten away the out- 
laws in case they may happen to be lurking 
in ambush.” 

Jim signified his hearty approval of the 
proposition. He even expressed a fervent 
hope that a rencontre with the outlaws might 
transpire, and then he muttered a cordial 
‘¢d—— ’em!” 

‘‘In order, however,” suggested Sir 
Charles, ‘‘ to avert suspicion here in camp it 
would be wise for your men to meet quietly 
at some obscure point and ride together, not 
along the main road, but around the moun- 
tain by the Tin Cup path, coming in on the 
main road this side of Lone Pineranch. You 
should await our arrival, and then, every- 
thing being tranquil, your posse can precede 
us as an advance guard in accordance with 
my previous suggestion.” 

“It might be a pious idea,” said Jim, ‘‘ for 
me to give the boys a pointer. They Il be 
on to it, anyhow, and I know ’em well 
enough to trust ’em.” 

‘“You know your men; do as you please 

146 


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about apprising them of their errand,” said 
Sir Charles. ‘‘I have only to request that 
you assure each that he will be well re- 
warded for his services. 

This makes a rude break in our wooing; 
but I am narrating actual happenings. Poor 
old Hoover’s subtlety all for naught, Mary’s 
friendly offices incompleted, the pleasant vis- 
its to the cabin among the hollyhocks sus- 
pended perhaps forever, Miss Woppit’s 
lonely lot rendered still more lonely by the 
departure of her sweet girl friend —all this 
was threatened by the proposed flight — for 
flight it was—of Sir Charles and Mary 
Lackington. 

That May morning was a glorious one. 
Summer seemed to have burst upon the 
camp and the noble mountain-sentinels 
about it. 

‘We are going to-day,” said Sir Charles 
to his daughter. ‘‘ Hush! not a word about 
it to anybody. I have reasons for wishing 
our departure to be secret.” 

‘“You have heard bad newsP” asked 
Mary, quickly. 

‘*Not at all,’’ answered Sir Charles, smil- 

147 


SECOND BOOK 


ingly. ‘‘ There is absolutely no cause for 
alarm. We must go quietly; when we 
reach home | will tell you my reasons and 
then we will have a hearty laugh together.” 

Mary Lackington set about packing her 
effects, and all the time her thoughts were 
of her lonely friend in the hill-side cabin. In 
this hour of her departure she felt herself 
drawn even more strangely and tenderly 
toward that weird, incomprehensible crea- 
ture; such a tugging at her heart the girl 
had never experienced till now. What 
would Miss Woppit say— what would she 
think? The thought of going away with 
never so much as a good-by struck Mary 
Lackington as being a wanton piece of 
heartlessness. But she would write to Miss 
W oppit as soon as ever she reached home— 
she would write a letter that would banish 
every suspicion of unfeelingness. 

Then, too, Mary thought of Hoover; what 
would the big, honest fellow think, to find 
himself deserted in this emergency without 
a word of warning P Altogether it was very 
dreadful. But Mary Lackington was a daugh- 
ter who did her father’s bidding trustingly. 

148 


OF” TAEES 


Three-fingered Hoover went with Jim 
Woppit that day. There were thirteen in 
the posse—fatal number—mounted on 
sturdy bronchos and armed to the teeth. 
They knew their business and they went 
gayly on their way. Around the mountain 
and over the Tin Cup path they galloped, a 
good seven miles, I ‘ll dare swear; and now 
at last they met up with the main road, and 
at Jim Woppit’s command they drew in 
under the trees to await the approach of the 
party in the stage. 

Meanwhile in camp the comedy was 
drawing to a close. Bill Merridew drove 
stage that day; he was Steve Barclay’s 
pardner — pretty near the only man in camp 
that stood out for Steve when he was sus- 
picioned of being in some sort of cahoots 
with the robbers. Steve Barclay’s arm was 
still useless and Bill was reckoned the next 
best horseman in the world. 

The stage drew up in front of the Mears 
House. Perhaps half a dozen passengers 
were in waiting and the usual bevy of idlers 
was there to watch the departure. Great 
was the astonishment when Sir Charles and 


149 


SECOND BOOK 


Mary Lackington appeared and stepped into 
the coach. Everybody knew Sir Charles 
and his daughter, and, as I have told you, 
it had been given out that they were not to 
leave the camp until the morrow. Forth- 
with there passed around mysterious whis- 
perings as to the cause of Sir Charles’ sud- 
den departure. 

It must have been a whim on Barber 
Sam’s part. At any rate, he issued just then 
from Casey’s restaurant across the way, 
jaunty and chipper as ever. He saw Sir 
Charles in the stage and Bill Merridew on 
the box. He gave a low, significant whis- 
tle. Then he crossed the road. 

‘* Bill,” says he, quietly, ‘‘ It ’s a summer- 
ish day, and not feelin’ just as pert as I 
oughter I reckon I'll ride a right smart piece 
with you for my health!” 

With these words Barber Sam climbed up 
and sat upon the box with Bill Merridew. 
A moment later the stage was on its course 
along the main road. 

‘Look a’ here, Bill Merridew,”’ says Bar- 
ber Sam, fiercely, ‘‘there’s a lord inside and 
you outside, to-day—a mighty suspicious 


150 


OF 1 ADES 


coincidence! No, you need n't let on you 
don’t tumble to my meenin’! I’ve had my 
eye on Steve Barclay an’ you, and I’m ready 
for a showdown. I ’m travelin’ for my 
health to-day, and so are you, Bill Merridew! 
I’m fixed from the ground up an’ you know 
there ain’t a man in the Red Hoss Mountain 
country that is handier with a gun than me. 
Now I mean bizness; if there is any on- 
pleasantness to-day and if you try to come 
any funny bizness, why, d—— me, Bill 
Merridew, if 1 don’t blow your head off!” 

Pleasant words these for Bill to listen to. 
But Bill knew Barber Sam and he had pres- 
ence of mind enough to couch his expostu- 
latory reply in the most obsequious terms. 
He protested against Barber Sam’s harsh im- 
putations. 

‘‘] ’ve had my say,” was Barber Sam’s an- 
swer. ‘‘I ain't goin’ torubitin. You under- 
stand that I mean bizness this trip; so don’t 
forget it. Now let’s talk about the weather.” 

Mary Lackington had hoped that, as they 
passed The Bower, she would catch a 
elimpse of Miss Woppit—perhaps have suf- 
ficient opportunity to call out a hasty fare- 


151 


SECOND BOOK 


well to her. But Miss Woppit was nowhere 
to be seen. The little door of the cabin was 
open, so presumably the mistress was not 
far away. Mary was disappointed, vexed; 
she threw herself back and resigned herself 
to indignant reflections. 

The stage had proceeded perhaps four 
miles on its way when its progress was ar- 
rested by the sudden appearance of a man, 
whose habit and gestures threatened evil. 
This stranger was of short and chunky build 
and he was clad in stout, dark garments 
that fitted him snugly. A slouch hat was 
pulled down over his head and a half-mask 
of brown muslin concealed the features of 
his face. He held out two murderous pis- 
tols and in a sharp voice cried ‘‘ Halt!” In- 
stantaneously Barber Sam recognized in this 
bold figure the mysterious outlaw who for 
so many months had been the terror of the 
district, and instinctively he reached for his 
pistol-pocket. 

_“*Throw up your hands!” commanded 
the outlaw. Hehadthe drop onthem. Re- 
calling poor Jake Dodsley’s fate Barber Sam 
discreetly did as he was bidden. As for 


152 


OF TALES 


Bill Merridew, he was shaking like a wine- 
jelly. The horses had come to a stand, and 
the passengers in the coach were wondering 
why a stop had been madeso soon. Wholly 
unaware of what had happened, Mary Lack- 
ington thrust her head from the door win- 
dow of the coach and looked forward up the 
road, in the direction of the threatening out- 
law. She comprehended the situation at 
once and with a scream fell back into her 
father’s arms. 

Presumably, the unexpected discovery of 
a woman among the number of his intended 
victims disconcerted the ruffian. At any 
rate, he stepped back a pace or two and for 
amoment lowered his weapons. That mo- 
ment was fatal to him. Quick as lightning 
Barber Sam whipped out his unerring revol- 
ver and fired. The outlaw fell like a lump 
of dough in the road. At that instant Bill 
Merridew recovered his wits; gathering up 
the lines and laying on the whip mercilessly 
he urged his horses into a gallop. Over the 
body of the outlaw crunched the hoofs of 
the frightened brutes and rumbled the 
wheels of the heavy stage. 


BF 


SECOND BOOK 


‘“We 've got him this time!” yelled Bar- 
ber Sam, wildly. ‘‘Stop your horses, Bill 
—you 're all right, Bill, and I’m sorry I ever 
did you dirt—stop your horses, and let ’s 
finish the sneakin’ critter!” 

There was the greatest excitement. The 
passengers fairly fell out of the coach, and it 
seemed as if they had an arsenal with them. 
Mary Lackington was as self-possessed as 
any of the rest. 

‘‘Are you sure he is dead?” she asked. 
‘Don’t let us go nearer till we know that 
he is dead; he will surely kill us!” 

The gamest man in the world would n’t 
have stood the ghost of a show in the face 
of those murderous weapons now brought 
to bear on the fallen and crushed wretch. 

‘If he ain’t dead already he ’s so near it 
that there ain’t no fun in it,” said Bill Merri- 
dew. 

In spite of this assurance, however, the 
party advanced cautiously toward the man. 
Convinced finally that there was no longer 
cause for alarm, Barber Sam strode boldly up 
to the body, bent over it, tore off the hat and 
pulled aside the muslin half-mask. One 


154 


QESTALES 


swift glance at the outlaw’s face, and Barber 
Sam recoiled. 

‘*Great God!” he cried, ‘‘ Miss Woppit!”’ 

It was, indeed, Miss Woppit—the fair- 
haired, shy-eyed boy who for months had 
masqueraded in the camp as a woman. 
Now, that masquerade disclosed and the 
dreadful mystery of the past revealed, the 
nameless boy, fair in spite of his crimes and 
his hideous wounds, lay dying in the dust 
and gravel of the road. 

Jim Woppit and his posse, a mile away, 
had heard the pistol-shot. It seemed but a 
moment ere they swept down the road to 
the scene of the tragedy; they came with the 
swiftness of the wind. Jim Woppit gal- 
loped ahead, his swarthy face the picture of 
terror. 

‘“‘Who is it—who ’s killed—who ’s 
hurt P”’ he asked. 

Nobody made answer, and that meant 
everything to Jim. He leapt from his horse, 
crept to the dying boy’s side and took the 
bruised head into his lap. The yellowish 
hair had fallen down about the shoulders; 
Jim stroked it and spoke to the white face, 


BD 


SECOND BOOK 


repeating ‘‘ Willie, Willie, Willie,” over and 
Over again. 

The presence and the voice of that evil 
brother, whom he had so bravely served, 
seemed to arrest the offices of Death. The 
boy came slowly to, opened his eyes and 
saw Jim Woppit there. There was pathos, 
not reproach, in the dying eyes. 

‘It’s all up, Jim,” said the boy, faintly, 
‘*T did the best I could.” 

All that Jim Woppit could answer was 
“Willie, Willie, Willie,” over and over 
again. 

‘“This was to have been the last and we 
were going away to be decent folks,” this 
was what the boy went on to say; ‘‘I wish 
it could have been so, for! have wanted to 
live ever since —ever since I knew her.” 

Mary Lackington gavea great moan. She 
stood a way off, but she heard these words 
and they revealed much— so very much to 
her— more, perhaps, than you and I can 
guess. 

He did not speak her name. The boy 
seemed not to know that she was there. He 
said no other word, but with Jim Woppit 

156 


OF TALES 


bending over him and wailing that piteous 
“Willie, Willie, Willie,” over and over again, 
the boy closed his eyes and was dead. 

Then they all looked upon Jim Woppit, 
but noonespoke. If words were to be said, 
it was Jim Woppit’s place to say them, and 
that dreadful silence seemed to cry: ‘‘Speak 
out, Jim Woppit, for your last hour has 
come)” 

Jim Woppit was no coward. He stood 
erect before them all and plucked from his 
breast the star of his office and cast away 
from him the weapon he had worn. He 
was magnificent in that last, evil hour! 

Bevien; Ssaidahe. “‘l-speak for him.an’ 
not for myself. Ez God is my judge, that 
boy wuz not to blame. I made him do it 
all—the lyin’, the robbery, the murder; he 
done it because I told him to, an’ because 
havin’ begun he tried to save me. Why, 
he wuz a kid ez innocent ez a leetle toddlin’ 
child. He wanted to go away from here 
an’ be different from wot he wuz, but I kep’ 
at him an’ made him do an’ do agin wot has 
brought the end to-day. Las’ night he cried 
when I told him he must do the stage this 


157 


SECOND BOOK 


mornin ; seemed like he wuz soft on the girl 
yonder. It wuz to have been the las’ time 
—I promised him that, an’ so—an’ so it is. 
Men, you ‘ll find the money an’ everything 
else in the cabin— under the floor of the cab- 
in. Make it ez square all round ez you kin.” 

Then Jim Woppit backed a space away, 
and, before the rest could realize what he 
was about, he turned, darted through the 
narrow thicket, and hurled himself into the 
gulch, seven hundred feet down. 

But the May sunlight was sweet and gra- 
cious, and there lay the dead boy, caressed 
of that charity of nature and smiling in its 
glory. 

Bill was the first to speak — Bill Merridew, 
Imean. He was Steve Barclay’s partner and 
both had been wronged most grievously. 

‘“Now throw the other one over, too,” 
cried Bill, savagely. ‘‘Let ’em both rot in 
the gulch!” 

But a braver, kindlier man said ‘‘No!”’ It 
was Three-fingered Hoover, who came for- 
ward now and knelt beside the dead boy 
and held the white face between his hard, 
brown hands and smoothed the yellowish 

158 


OF TALES 


hair and looked with unspeakable tenderness 
upon the closed eyes. 

ssbeave her to me,” said he, reverently. 
“It wuz ez near ez I ever come to lovin’ a 
woman, and I! reckon it’s ez near ez I ever 
shell come. So let me do with her ez pleases 
ice 

It was their will to let Three-fingered 
Hoover have his way. With exceeding 
tenderness he bore the body back to camp 
and he gave it into the hands of womenfolk 
to prepare it for burial, that no man’s touch 
should profane that vestige of his love. You 
see he chose to think of her to the last as she 
had seemed to him in life. 

And it was another conceit of his to put 
over the grave, among the hollyhocks on 
that mountain-side, a shaft of pure white 
marble bearing simply the words ‘‘ Miss 
Woppit.” 


159 





- 


Che Caligman 


e 





THE TALISMAN 


HERE was a boy named Wilhelm who 

was the only son of a widow. He was 
so devoted and obedient that other people 
in the village used to be saying always: 
‘“What a good son Wilhelm is; how kind 
he is to his mother.”” So, while he was the 
example for all the other boys in the village, 
he was the pride of his mother, who told 
him that some day he would marry a prin- 
cess for having been such a good and duti- 
ful son. 

When the time came for him to go out 
into the world and make his living, his 
mother blessed him and said, ‘‘ Here, my 
son, is a talisman, which you are to hang 
about your neck and wear nearest your heart. 
Whenever you are in trouble, look at this 
talisman and it will preserve you from 
harm.” 

163 


SECOND BOOK 


So, with his mother’s kiss upon his lips 
and the talisman next his heart, Wilhelm 
set out to make his fortune in the world. 
The talisman was simply an old silver coin 
which had been smoothly polished upon one 
side and inscribed with the word ‘‘ Mother; ” 
yet Wilhelm prized it above all other earthly 
things—first, because his mother had given 
it to him, and again because he believed it 
posSessed a charm that would keep him from 
harm. 

Wilhelm travelled many days through the 
forests and over the hills in search of a town 
where he might find employment, and the 
food with which his mother had provided 
him for the journey was nearly gone. But 
whenever he was inclined to sadness, he 
drew the talisman from his bosom and the 
sight of the name of mother restored his 
spirits. 

One evening as he climbed a hill, he beheld 
a great city about a league distant. 

‘“Here at last I shall find employment,” 
thought he. But he had no sooner uttered 
these words than he heard something likea 
sigh issuing from the roadside and as he 

164 


OF: PALES 


turned to discover whence it came, he saw 
a dark and forbidding looking old castle 
standing back some way from the road in a 
cluster of forest trees. The grounds belong- 
ing to this old castle were surrounded by a 
single fence, between the palings of which 
a white swan stretched out its neck and gave 
utterance to the sighs which had attracted 
Wilhelm’s attention. 

The dismal noise made by the bird and 
its strange actions— for it fluttered its wings 
wildly and waved its head as if it would 
have Wilhelm approach—excited Wil- 
helm’s curiosity, and he drew nearer the 
fence and said, ‘‘Why do you act so 
strangely, white swan?” 

But the swan made no answer except to 
sigh more dismally than before and flap its 
wings still more widely. Then Wilhelm 
saw that the swan, although aswan in every 
other particular, had the eyes of a human 
being. He had scarcely recovered from the 
astonishment occasioned by this discovery, 
when the first swan was joined by a full 
score of other white swans that came run- 
ning over the green sward, sighing very dis- 

165 


SECOND BOOK 


mally and many of them shedding tears 
from their human eyes. 

It was only the approach of night that 
hastened Wilhelm on his journey to the city, 
and, as he trudged along, he could not help 
thinking of the singular adventure with the 
swans. Presently he came upon a country- 
man sitting by the roadside, and to him he 
told the story of the castle and the swans. 

‘‘ Ah,” said the countryman, ‘‘ you are an 
innocent lad to be sure! That was the castle 
of the old witch, and the swans you saw are 
unfortunate princes whom she has en- 
chanted.” 

Then Wilhelm begged him to tell him 
about the old witch and the poor princes, 
and the countryman told him all from first 
to last, only I will have to make it much 
shorter, as it was a long tale. 

It seems that the old witch was once a 
princess who was famed for her beauty and 
wit. She had a younger sister who was 
quite as beautiful, but much more amiable 
and much less ambitious. These sister 
princesses lived in the castle together, and 
the elder, whose name was Mirza, guarded 

166 


OF TALES 


the younger very jealously lest the younger 
should be first married. One time the Prince 
Joseph determined he would wed. He was 
the handsomest and bravest prince in the 
land and all the princesses set their caps for 
him, Mirza among the others. But it came 
to, the prince’s ears that Mirza was learned 
in and practised witchcraft, so, despite her 
beauty and her grace, he would have no 
thought of Mirza, but chose her younger sis- 
ter to wife. 

When the prince wedded the younger 
princess, Mirza was enraged beyond all say- 
ing, and forthwith she dismissed her court 
and gave up her life to the singing of incan- 
tations and the dreadful practices of a witch; 
and so constant was she in the practice of 
those black arts that her back became bent, 
her hair white, and her face wrinkled, and 
she grew to be the most hideous hag in the 
whole kingdom. Meanwhile, the prince had 
become king; and his wife, the queen, had 
presented him with a daughter, so beautiful 
that her like had never been seen on earth. 
This little princess was named Mary, a name 
esteemed then, as now, as the most beauti- 

167 


SECOND BOOK 


ful of all names. Mary increased in loveliness 
each day and when she was fifteen the fame 
of her beauty and amiability was worldwide. 

But one day, as the princess sat counting 
her pearls in her chamber, the old witch 
Mirza flew in through the window on a 
broomstick and carried the princess Mary off 
to her forlorn old castle, a league beyond 
the city. The queen mother, who had wit- 
nessed this violence, fell into a swoon from 
which she never recovered, and the whole 
court was thrown into a vast commotion. 

Having buried his fair queen, the bereaved 
king set about to recover his daughter, the 
princess Mary, but this was found to be im- 
possible, since the witch had locked the girl 
in an upper chamber of the castle and had 
set a catamaran and a boogaboo to guard 
the place. So, whenever the king’s soldiers 
attempted to rescue the princess, the cata- 
maran breathed fire from his nostrils upon 
them while the boogaboo tore out their 
hearts with his fierce claws. 

Finally the king sent word to the witch 
that he would bestow upon her all the riches 
of his kingdom if she would restore his 

168 


OF TALES 


daughter, but she replied that there was only 
one condition upon which she would give 
up the princess and that was that some 
young man of the kingdom should rightly 
answer three questions she would propound. 
At once the bravest and handsomest knights 
in the kingdom volunteered to rescue the 
princess, but having failed to answer the 
questions of the old witch, they were trans- 
formed into swans and were condemned to 
eke out miserable existences in the dreary 
park around the old witch’s castle. 

eis, sSaid) thescounttyman,i<‘isythe 
story of the princess, the witch and the 
swans. Every once in a while, an adven- 
turesome youth seeks to restore the princess 
to her father, and he is as surely transformed 
into aswan. So, while the court is in mourn- 
ing, the princess pines in the witch’s castle 
and the swans wander about the castle 
yard.” 

This piteous tale awakened Wilhelm’s 
sympathy, and although it was now quite 
dark, he determined to go back to the witch’s 
castle and catch a glimpse of the beautiful 
princess. 

169 


SECOND BOOK 


‘« May luck attend thee,” said the country- 
man, ‘‘ but beware of the catamaran and the 
boogaboo.” 

As he was plodding back to the witch’s 
castle, Wilhelm drew his talisman from his 
bosom and gazed tenderly upon it. It had 
never looked so bright and shining. The 
moon beams danced upon its smooth face 
and kissed it. Wilhelm was confident that 
this was an omen that his dear mother ap- 
proved the errand he was on. Then he 
knelt down by the roadside and said a little 
prayer, and when he had finished, the night 
zephyrs breathed their sweetest music in 
his ears, and Wilhelm thought it was the 
heavenly Father whispering words of en- 
couragement to him. So Wilhelm went 
boldly toward the witch’s castle. 

As he drew nigh to the castle, he saw the 
old witch fly away on her broomstick, ac- 
companied bya bevy of snarling hobgoblins 
that were also on broomsticks and looked 
very hideous. Then Wilhelm knew the 
witch and her escort were off for the forest 
and would not return till midnight. 

The princess Mary was standing at the 


170 


OP TALES 


barred window of her chamber and was 
weeping. As Wilhelm approached the castle, 
the swans rushed to meet him, and the flap- 
ping of their wings and their piteous cries 
attracted the attention of the princess, and 
she saw Wilhelm. 

‘‘Oh, fly from here, sweet prince,” cried 
the princess; ‘‘for if the witch were to re- 
turn, she would kill you and boil your heart 
in her cauldron!”’ 

‘‘Tam_ no prince,” replied Wilhelm, ‘‘and 
I do not fear the ugly old witch.” 

Then Wilhelm told the princess who he 
was and how he was ready to serve her, for, 
having perceived her rare beauty and amia- 
bility, he was madly in love with her and 
was ready to die for her sake. But the prin- 
cess, who was most agreeably impressed by 
his manly figure, handsome face, and honest 
valor, begged him not to risk his life for her. 

‘It is better that I should pass my exist- 
ence here in prison” said she, than that 
you should be transformed as these other 
wretched princes have been.”’ 

And when they heard these words, the 
swans craned their necks and gave utterance 


171 


SECOND BOOK 


to such heartrending sighs that the princess 
sobbed with renewed vigor and even Wil- 
helm fell to weeping. 

At this moment, hearing the commotion 
in the yard, the hideous catamaran and the 
ugly boogaboo came out of the castle and 
regarded Wilhelm with ferocious counte- 
nances. Never before had Wilhelm seen 
such revolting monsters! 

The catamaran had a body and tail like an 
alligator, a head like a hippopotamus, and 
four legs like the legs of an ostrich. The 
body was covered with greenish scales, its 
eyes were living fire, and scorching flames 
issued from its mouthandears. The boog- 
aboo was none the less frightful in its ap- 
pearance. It resembled a monster ape, ex- 
cept that instead of a hairy hide it had a 
scabby skin as red as a salamander’s. Its 
arms were long and muscular, and its bony 
hands were armed with eleven fingers each, 
upon which were nails or claws shaped like 
fish hooks and keen as razors. This booga- 
boo had skinny wings like a huge bat, and 
at the end of its rat-like tail was a sting 
more deadly than the poison of a snake. 


172 


OF -TAEES 


These hideous reptiles—the catamaran 
and the boogaboo—stood glaring at Wil- 
helm. 

‘““Ow — wow — wow — wow!” roared 
the catamaran; ‘‘I will scorch you to a 
cinder.”’ 

“Ow—wow— wow— wow!” bellowed 
the boogaboo, ‘‘I will tear your heart from 
your bosom.” 

So, in the wise determination not to die 
until he had made a brave and discreet 
struggle for the princess, Wilhelm left the 
castle and stole down the highway towards 
the city. 

That night he slept in a meadow, and the 
stars watched over him and the daisies and 
buttercups bent their heads lovingly above 
him and sang lullabies, while he dreamed of 
his mother and the princess, who seemed to 
smile upon him all that night. 

In the morning, Wilhelm pushed on to the 
city, and he went straight to the palace gate 
and demanded to see the king. This was 
no easy matter, but finally he was admitted 
and the king asked him what he wanted. 
When the king heard that Wilhelm was 


173 


SECOND BOOK 


determined to make an attempt to rescue the 
princess, he burst out crying and embracing 
the youth, assured him that it was folly for 
him —a simple country boy —to undertake 
to accomplish what so many accomplished 
and skilled princes had essayed in vain. 

But Wilhelm insisted, until at last the 
king called his court together and announced 
that the simple country lad had resolved to 
guess the riddles of the old witch. The 
courtiers straightway fell to laughing at the 
presumption of the rural wight, as they de- 
risively called him, but it was much to the 
credit of the court ladies that they admired 
the youth for his comely person, ingenuous 
manners, and brave determination. The end 
of it all was that, at noon that very day, a 
long procession went with Wilhelm to the 
witch’s castle, the courtiers hardly suppress- 
ing their mirth, but the ladies all in tears for 
fear the handsome youth would not guess 
the riddles and would therefore be trans- 
formed by the witch. 

The old witch saw the train approaching 
her castle and she went out into the yard 
and sat on a rickety bench under a upas tree 


174 


Phe 


OF TALES 


to receive the king and his court. She was 
attended by twelve snapdragons, a score of 
hobgoblins, and innumerable gnomes, elves, 
ghouls, and hoodoos. On her left stood the 
catamaran, and on her right the boogaboo, 
each more revoltingly hideous than ever 
before. 

When the king and Wilhelm and the rest 
of the cavalcade came into the castle yard 
and stood before the witch, she grinned and 
showed her black gums and demanded to 
know why they had come. 

‘We havea youth here who would solve 
your three riddles,” said the king. 

Then the old witch laughed, ‘‘ Ha, ha, 
ha!”’ and the gnomes, ghouls, and all the 
rest of the enchantress’ followers took up 
the refrain and laughed till the air was very 
dense with sulphurous fumes. 

‘‘Well, if the youth is resolved, let him 
see the doom that awaits him,’’ said the 
witch, and she waved her stick. 

Forthwith a strange procession issued from 
the castle. First came two little imps, then 
came two black demons, and last of all the 
swans, two by two, mournfully flapping 

Reeiys: 


SECOND BOOK 


their wings and giving utterance to sighs 
and moans more dismal than any sounds 
ever before heard. 

‘“You are going to have a new compan- 
ion, my pretty pets,” said the old witch to 
the swans, whereupon the swans moaned 
and sighed with renewed vigor. 

The king and his court trembled and wept 
at the spectacle, for in these unhappy birds 
they recognized the poor princes who had 
fallen victims to the foul witch’s arts. To 
add to the misery of the scene, the beautiful 
princess Mary appeared at the barred win- 
dow of her chamber in the castle and 
stretched out her white arms beseechingly. 
But the king and his court could avail her 
nothing, for the hideous catamaran and the 
cruel boogaboo were prepared to pounce 
upon and destroy whosoever attemped to 
rescue the unhappy maiden by violence. 

‘‘Let the presumptuous youth stand be- 
fore me,” cried the witch. And Wilhelm 
strode boldly to the open spot between the 
witch and the kingly retinue. 

‘‘A fine, plump swan will you make,” 
hissed the old witch. ‘‘Now can you tell 

176 3 


OFF TALES 


me what is sweeter than the kiss of the 
princess’ mother P” 

Now the witch had supposed that Wil- 
helm would reply ‘‘ The kiss of the princess 
herself,” for this was the reply that all the 
other youths had made. But Wilhelm made 
no such answer. He faced the old witch 
boldly and replied, ‘‘ The kiss of my own 
mother!” 

And hearing this, which was the correct 
answer, the witch quivered with astonish- 
ment and rage, and the catamaran fell down 
upon the grass and vomited its flaming 
breath upon itself until it was utterly con- 
sumed. So that was the last of the hideous 
catamaran. 

‘‘ Having said that, he will not think to 
repeat it,” thought the old witch, and she 
propounded the second question, which was: 
‘“What always lieth next a good man’s 
heart P” 

Now for a long time Wilhelm paused in 
doubt, and the king and his retinue began 
to tremble and the poor swans dolorously 
flapped their wings and sighed more pit- 
eously. But the old witch chuckled and 


77 


SECOND BOOK 


licked her warty chops and muttered, ‘‘ He 
will have feathers all over his back pres- 
ently.” 

And in his doubt Wilhelm remembered 
the words of his dear mother: ‘‘ Whenever 
in trouble, look at the talisman and it will 
preserve you from harm.” So Wilhelm put 
his hand in his bosom and drew forth the 
talisman, and lo! the inscription seemed to 
burn itself into his very soul. Gently he 
raised the talisman to his lips and reverently 
he kissed it. And then he uttered the sa- 
cred name, ‘‘ Mother.” 

And straightway the hideous boogaboo 
fell down upon the grass and with its cruel 
talons tore out its own heart, so that the 
boogaboo perished miserably in the sight of 
all. The old witch cowered and foamed at 
her ugly black mouth and uttered fearful 
curses and imprecations. 

It was never known what the third and 
last riddle was, for as soon as they saw her 
deprived of her twin guardians, the cata- 
maran and the boogaboo, the king’s swords- 
men fell upon the witch and hewed off her 
head, and the head and body tumbled to the 


178 


OF TALES 


ground. At that very instant the earth 
opened and, with a sickening groan, swal- 
lowed up the dead witch and all her elves, 
gnomes, imps, ghouls, snapdragons, and 
demons. But the swans were instantane- 
ously transformed back into human beings, 
for as soon as the witch died, all enchant- 
ment over them was at an end, and there 
was great joy. 

The recovery of the beautiful princess 
Mary was easily accomplished now, and the 
next day she was wedded to Wilhelm amid 
great rejoicing, the rescued princes serving 
as the bridegroom’s best men. The king 
had it proclaimed that Wilhelm should be 
his successor, and there was great rejoicing 
in all the kingdom. 

In the midst of his prosperity, Wilhelm 
did not forget his dear old mother. He sent 
for her at once, and she lived with Wilhelm 
and his bride in the splendid palace, and she 
was always very particular to tell everybody 
whata good, kind, and thoughtful son Wil- 
helm had always been. 

Dear little boys, God has put into your 
bosoms a talisman which will always tell 


79 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


you that love of mother is the sweetest and 
holiest of all human things. Treasure that 
sacred talisman, and heaven’s blessings will 
be always with you. And then each of you 
shall marry a beautiful princess, or at least 
one who is every whit as good as a beauti- 
ful princess. 


* 


George's Wirthdap 


_< 





GEORGE’S BIRTHDAY 


AWRENCE seemed to be lost in medi- 
tation. He sat in a rude arm-chair un- 
der his favorite fig tree, and his eyes were 
fixed intently upon the road that wound 
away from the manor house, through the 
broad gate, and across the brown sward 
until it lost itself in the oak forest yonder. 
Had it been summer the sight of Lawrence 
in the arm-chair under the fig tree would 
not have been surprising, but the spectacle 
of Lawrence occupying that seat in mid- 
winter, with his gaze riveted on the sear 
roadway, was simply preposterous, as you 
will all admit. 

It was a February morning —clear, bright, 
and beautiful, with a hint of summer in the 
warmth of its breath and the cheeriness 
of its smile. Pope’s Creek, as it rippled 

183 


SECOND BOOK 


along, made pleasant music, the partridges 
drummed in the under brush, and the red- 
birds whistled weirdly in the leafless chest- 
nut grove near the swash. Now and then 
a Bohemian crow, moping lazily from the 
Maryland border, looked down at Lawrence 
in the old arm-chair and uttered a hoarse 
exclamation of astonishment. 

But Lawrence heard none of these things; 
with stony stare he continued to regard the 
roadway to the grove. Could it be that he 
was unhappy? He was the proprietor of 
‘‘ Wakefield,” the thirteen hundred acres that 
Stretched around him; five hundred slaves 
called him master; bounteous crops had 
filled his barns to overflowing, and, to com- 
plete what should have been the sum of hu- 
man happiness, he had but two years before 
taken to wife the beautiful Mary, daughter 
of Joseph Ball, Esq., of Epping Forest, and 
the acknowledged belle of the Northern 
Neck. How, then, could Lawrence be un- 
happy? 

The truth is, Lawrence was in a delirium 
of expectancy. He stood, as it were, upon 
the threshold of an event. The experience 

184 


OF TALES 


which threatened him was altogether a new 
one; he was in a condition of suspense that 
was simply torturesome. 

This event had been anticipated for some 
time. By those subtile methods peculiar to 
her sex, Mary, the wife, had prepared her- 
self for it, and Lawrence, too, had declared 
ever and anon his readiness to face the ordeal ; 
but, now that the event was close at hand, 
Lawrence was weak and nervous and pale, 
and it was evident that Mary would have to 
confront the event without the hope of any 
practical assistance from her husband. 

‘“It is all the fault of the moon,” muttered 
Lawrence. ‘‘It changed last night, and if 
I had paid any attention to what Aunt Lizzie 
and Miss Bettie said I might have expected 
this trouble to-day. A plague take the 
moon, I say, and all the ills it brings with its 
monkeyshines!” 

* * * * * * * 

Along the pathway across the meadow 
meandered three feminine figures attired in 
the quaint raiment of those remote Colonial 
times — Mistress Carter, her daughter Mis- 
tress Fairfax, and another neighbor, the an- 

185 


SECOND BOOK 


tique and angular Miss Dorcas Culpeper, 
spinster. At sight of Lawrence they groaned, 
and Miss Culpeper found it necessary to 
hold her big velvet bag before her face to 
conceal the blushes of indignation which she 
felt suffusing her venerable features when 
she beheld the horrid author of a kind of 
trouble to which, on account of her years 
and estate, she could never hope to con- 
tribute save as a party of the third part. And 
oh! how guilty Lawrence looked and how 
guilty he felt, too, as he sat under his fig 
tree just then. He dropped his face into his 
hands and ground his elbows into his knees 
and indulged in bitter thoughts against the 
feminine sex in general and against the moon 
and Miss Dorcas Culpeper, spinster, in par- 
ticular. 

So absorbing were these bitter reflections 
that, although Lawrence had posted himself 
under the fig tree for the sole purpose of 
discovering and of heralding the approach of 
a certain expected visitor, he was not aware 
of Dr. Farley’s arrival until that important 
personage had issued from the oak grove, 
had traversed the brown road, and was dig- 

186 


OF TALES 


nifiedly stalking his flea-bitten mare through 
the gateway. Then Lawrence looked up, 
gave a sickly smile, and bade the doctor an 
incoherent good-morning. Dr. Farley was 
sombre and impressive. He seldom smiled. 
Animperturbable gravity possessed him from 
the prim black-satin cockade on his three- 
cornered hat to the silver buckles on his 
square-toed shoes. In his right hand he 
carried a gold-headed cane which he wielded 
as solemnly as a pontiff might wield a scep- 
tre, and as he dismounted from his flea-bitten 
mare and unswung his ponderous saddle- 
bags he never once suffered the gold head 
of his impressive cane to lapse from its ac- 
customed position at his nostrils. 

‘‘Go right into the house, doctor,” said 
Lawrence, feebly, ‘‘/ “7 look after the mare. 
You have n't come any too soon — Mary ’s 
taking on terrible.” 

It was mean of Dr. Farley, but at this 
juncture he dd really smile— yes, and it was 
asmile which combined so much malevolent 
pity and scorn and derision that poor Law- 
rence felt himself shrivelling up to the infini- 
tesimal dimension of a pea in a bushel- 

187 


SECOND BOOK 


basket. He led the flea-bitten mare to the 
cherry tree and tied her there. ‘‘If you 
bark that tree Ill tan you alive,” said Law- 
rence hoarsely, to the champing, frisky crea- 
ture, for now he hated all animal life from Dr. 
Farley down, down, down even to the flea- 
bitten mare. Then, miserable and nervous, 
Lawrence returned to the arm-chair under 
the fig tree—and, how wretched he was! 

Pretty soon he heard a merry treble voice 
piping out: ‘‘Is ze gockter tum to oo house?” 
and Lawrence saw little Martha toddling to- 
ward him. Little Martha was Mistress Dan- 
dridge’s baby girl. The Dandridges lived a 
short way beyond the oak grove, and little 
Martha loved to visit Uncle Lawrence and 
Aunt Mary, as she called Lawrence and his 
wife. 

‘“Yes, Martha,’”’ said Lawrence, sadly, 
‘“the doctor's come.” 

‘« Ain't oo glad ze gockter’s tum 2?” asked 
the child, anxiously, for she recognized the 
weary tone of Lawrence’s voice. 

‘Oh, yes,” he answered, quickly and 
with an effort at cheerfulness, ‘‘I ’m glad 
he’s come. Ha, ha!”’ 

188 


OF -FALES 


‘‘Is oo doing to have oo toof pulled?” 
she inquired, artlessly. 

Lawrence shook his head. 

‘No, little one,” said he, ina melancholy 
voice, ‘‘I wish I was.” 

Then Martha wanted to know whether 
the doctor had brought his saddlebags, and 
when Lawrence answered in the affirmative 
a summer of sunshine seemed to come into 
the child’s heart and burst out over her pretty 
face. 

‘*Oh, I know!” she cried, as she clapped 
her fat little hands. ‘‘ Ze gockterhas bwought 
00 a itty baby!” 

Now Martha’s innocence, naiveté, and 
exuberance rather pleased Lawrence. In 
fact, Martha was the only human being in 
all the world who had treated Lawrence 
with any kind of consideration that Febru- 
ary morning, and all at once Lawrence felt 
his heart warm and go out toward the prat- 
tling child. 

‘“Come here, little Martha,” said he, kind. 
ly, ‘‘and let me hold you on my knee. 
Who told you about the — about the — the 
baby, eh?” 


189 


SECOND BOOK 


‘‘Mamma says ze gockter alers brings 
itty babies in his sagglebags. Do oo want 
a itty baby, Uncle Lawrence?” 

‘* Yes, Martha, I do,” said he, kissing her, 
‘‘and I want a little girl just like you.” 

Now Martha had guessed at the event, 
and her guess was eminently correct. Law- 
rence had told the truth, too; it was a little 
girl he wanted— not one that looked like 
Martha, perhaps — one that looked like his 
Mary would please him most. So the two 
talked together, and Lawrence found himself 
concocting the most preposterous perjuries 
touching the famous saddlebags and the ba- 
bies, but it seemed to delight little Martha all 
the more as these perjuries became more and 
more preposterous. 

For reasons, however, which we at this 
subsequent period can appreciate, this con- 
fabulation could not last for aye, and when, 
finally, little Martha trotted back homeward 
Lawrence bethought himself it was high 
time to reconnoiter the immediate scene of 
action within his house. He found a group 
of servants huddled about the door. Chloe, 
Becky, Ann, Snowdrop, Pearl, Susan, Tilly 


190 


OFITALES 


—all, usually cheerful and smiling, wore 
distressful countenances now. Nor did they 
speak to him as had been their wont. They 
seemed to be afraid of him, yet what had he 
done— what had he ever done that these 
well-fed, well-treated slaves should shrink 
from him in his hour of trouble P 

It was still gloomier inside the house. 
Aunt Lizzie and Miss Bettie, the nurses, had 
taken supreme charge of affairs. At this 
moment Aunt Lizzie, having brewed a pot 
of tea, was regaling Mistress Carter and Mis- 
tress Fairfax and the venerable Miss Dorcas 
Culpeper, spinster, with a desultory but 
none the less interesting narrative of her per- 
formances on countless occasions similar 
to the event about to take place. The ap- 
pearance of Lawrence well-nigh threw Miss 
Culpeper into hysterics, and, to escape the 
dismal groans, prodigious sighs, and re- 
proachful glances of the others, Lawrence 
made haste to get out of the apartment. The 
next room was desolate enough, but it was 
under Mary’s room and there was some com- 
fort in knowing that. Yet the nearer Law- 
rence came to Mary’s room the more helpless 


191 


SECOND BOOK 


he grew. He could not explain it, but he was 
lamentably weak and miserable. A strange 
fear undid him and he fairly trembled. 

‘*T will go up and ask if there is anything 
I can do,” he said to himself, for he was 
ashamed to admit his cowardice. 

But his knees failed him and he sat down 
on the stairs and listened and wished he had 
never been born. 

Oh, how quiet the house was. Lawrence 
strained his ears to catch a sound from 
Mary’s room. He could hear a faint echo of 
the four chattering women in the front 
chamber below, but not a sound from Mary’s 
room. Now and then a shrill cry of a jay 
or the lowing of the oxen in the pasture by 
the creek came to him from the outside 
world — but not a sound from Mary’s room. 
His heart sank; he would have given the 
finest plantation in Westmoreland County 
for the echo of Mary’s voice or the music of 
Mary’s footfall now. 

Presently the door of Mary’s room opened. 
The cold, unrelenting, forbidding counte- 
nance of Miss Bettie, the nurse, confronted 
Lawrence’s upturned, pleading face. 


192 


OF TALES 


‘*Oh, it ’s vou, is it?’’ said Miss Bettie, 
unfeelingly, and with this cheerless remark 
she closed the door again, and Lawrence 
was more miserable than ever. He stole 
down-stairs into a back room, escaped 
through a window, and slunk away toward 
the stables. The whole world seemed 
turned against him —in the flower of early 
manhood he found himself unwillingly and 
undeservedly an Ishmaelite. 

He rebelled against this cruel injustice. 

Then he grew weak and childish again. 

Anon he anathematized humanity, and 
then again he ruefully regretted his own ex- 
istence. 

In a raging fever one moment, he shivered 
and chattered like a sick magpie the next. 

But when he thought of Mary his heart 
softened and sweeter emotions thrilled him. 
She, at least, he assured himself, would de- 
fend him from these persecutions were she 
aware ofthem. So, after roaming aimlessly 
between the barn and the creek, the creek 
and the overseer’s house, the overseer’s 
house and the swash, the swash and the 
grove, the grove and the servants’ quarters, 


193 


SECOND BOOK 


Lawrence made up his mind that he ‘d go 
back to the house (like the brave man he 
wanted to make himself believe he was) and 
help Mary endure ‘‘the ordeal,” as Miss 
Dorcas Culpeper, spinster, was pleased to 
term the evert. But Lawrence could not 
bring himself to face the feminine quartet in 
the front chamber—now that he came to 
think of it he recollected that he always had 
detested those four impertinent gossips! So 
he crept around to the side window, raised 
it softly, crawled in through, and _ slipped 
noiselessly toward the stairway. 

Then all at once he heard a cry; a shrill 
little voice that did not linger in his ears, 
but went straight to his heart and kept 
echoing there and twining itself in and out, 
in and out, over and over again. 

This little voice stirred Lawrence strangely ; 
it seemed to tell him things he had never 
known before, to speak a wisdom he had 
never dreamed of, to breathe a sweeter music 
than he had ever heard, to inspire ambitions 
purer and better than any he had ever felt — 
the voice of his firstborn—you know, 
fathers, what that meant to Lawrence. 


194 


OF TALES 


Well, Lawrence was brave again, but 
there was a lump in his throat and his eyes 
were misty. 

‘** She’s here at last,’’ he murmured thank- 
fully; ‘‘ heaven be praised for that!” 

Of course you understand that Lawrence 
had been hoping for a girl; so had his wife. 
They had planned to call her Mary, after her 
mother, the quondam belle of the Northern 
Neck. Grandfather Joseph Ball, late of Ep- 
ping Forest, was to be her godfather, and 
Colonel Bradford Custis of Jamestown had 
promised to grace the christening with his 
imposing presence. 

‘Well, you can come in,” said Miss Bet- 
tie, with much condescension, and in all 
humility Lawrence did go in. 

Dr. Farley was quite as solemn and im- 
pressive as ever. He occupied the great 
chair near the chimney-place, and he still 
held the gold head of his everlasting cane 
close to his nose. 

‘Well, Mary,” said Lawrence, with an 
inquiring, yearning glance. Mary was very 
pale, but she smiled sweetly. 

‘“Lawrence, it’s a boy,” said Mary. 


195 


SECOND BOOK 


Oh, what a grievous disappointment that 
was! After all the hopes, the talk, the prep- 
arations, the plans—a boy! What would 
Grandfather Ball, late of Epping Forest, say P 
What would come of the grand christening 
that was to be graced by the imposing pres- 
ence of Colonel Bradford Custis of James- 
town?’ How the Jeffersons and Randolphs 
and Masons and Pages and Slaughters and 
Carters and Ayletts and Henrys would gossip 
and chuckle, and how he— Lawrence — 
would beheld up tothe scorn and the derision 
of the facetious yeomen of Westmoreland! 
It was simply terrible. 

And just then, too, Lawrence’s vexation 
was increased by a gloomy report from the 
four worthy dames down-stairs — viz., Mis- 
tress Carter, Mistress Fairfax, Miss Dorcas 
Culpeper, spinster, and Aunt Lizzie, the 
nurse. These inquiring creatures had been 
casting the new-born babe’s_ horoscope 
through the medium of tea grounds in their 
blue-china cups, and each agreed that the 
child’s future was full of shame, crime, dis- 
grace, and other equally unpleasant features. 

‘‘Now that it’s a boy,” said Lawrence, 

196 


OF TALES 


ruefully, ‘‘I ’m willing to believe almost 
anything. It would n’t surprise me at all if 
he wound up on the gallows!”’ 

But Mary, cherishing the puffy, fuzzy, red- 
faced little waif in her bosom, said to him, 
softly: ‘‘No matter what the others say, 
my darling; / bid you welcome, and, by 
God’s grace, my love and prayers shall make 
you good and great.” 

And it was even so. Mary’s love and 
prayers did make a good and great man of 
that unwelcome child, as we who celebrate 
his birthday in these later years believe. They 
hadagrand christening, too; Grandfather Ball 
was there, and Colonel Bradford Custis, and 
the Lees, the Jeffersons, the Randolphs, the 
Slaughters — yes, all the old families of Vir- 
ginia were represented, and there was feast- 
ing and merry-making for three days! Such 
cheer prevailed, in fact, that even Miss Dor- 
cas Culpeper, spinster, and Lawrence, the 
happy father, became completely reconciled. 
Soothed by the grateful influences of barbe- 
cued meats and draughts of rum and sugar, 
Lawrence led Miss Culpeper through the 
minuet. 


197 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


‘* A very proper name for the babe ?”’ sug- 
gested Miss Culpeper. 

““Yes, we will call him George, in honor 
of his majesty our king,” said Lawrence 
Washington, with the pride that comes of 
loyalty and patriotism. 


198 


+ 


Atweet-One“Darling and the 
Dreamn-Fairies 


7 


a 


i 


pw. 
fe, i’ ate 





SWEET-ONE-DARLING AND THE 
DREAM-FAIRIES 


WONDERFUL thing happened one 

night; those who never heard of it be- 
fore will hardly believeit. Sweet-One-Dar- 
ling was lying in her little cradle with her 
eyes wide open, and she was trying to make 
up her mind whether she should go to sleep 
or keep awake. This is often a hard matter 
for little people to determine. Sweet-One- 
Darling was ready for sleep and dreams; she 
had on her nightgown and her nightcap, 
and her mother had kissed her good-night. 
But the day had been so very pleasant, with 
its sunshine and its play and its many other 
diversions, that Sweet-One-Darling was 
quite unwilling to give it up. It was high 
time for the little girl to be asleep; the robins 
had ceased their evening song in the maple; 
a tree-toad croaked monotonously outside, 


201 


SECOND BOOK 


and a cricket was chirping certain confi- 
dences to the strange shadows that crept 
furtively everywhere in the yard and garden. 
Some folk believe that the cricket is in league 
with the Dream-Fairies; they say that what 
sounds to us like a faint chirping merely is 
actually the call of the cricket to the Dream- 
Fairies to let those pretty little creatures 
know that it is time for them to come with 
their dreams. [| more than half believe this 
myself, for I have noticed that it is while the 
cricket is chirping that the Dream-Fairies 
come with their wonderful sights that seem 
oftentimes very real. 

Sweet-One-Darling heard the voice of the 
cricket, and may be she knew what it 
meant. Thereare a great many things which 
Sweet-One-Darling knows all about but of 
which she says nothing to other people; al- 
though she is only a year old, she is un- 
doubtedly the most knowing little person in 
all the world, and the fact that she is the 
most beautiful and the most amiable of hu- 
man beings is the reason why she is called 
by that name of Sweet-One-Darling. May 
be — and it is quite likely that — with all the 


202 


OF TALES 


other wonderful things she knew, Sweet- 
One-Darling understood about the arrange- 
ment that existed between the cricket and 
the Dream-Fairies. At any rate, just as soon 
as she heard that cricket give its signal note 
she smiled a smile of gratification and looked 
very wise, indeed—as much as to say: 
‘‘The cricket and I know a thing worth 
knowing.” 

Then, all of a sudden, there was a faint 
sound as of the rustle of gossamer, silken 
wings, and the very next moment two of 
the cunningest fairies you ever saw were 
standing upon the window-sill, just over the 
honeysuckle. They had come from Some- 
where, and it was evident that they were 
searching for somebody, for they peered cau- 
tiously and eagerly into the room. One 
was dressed in a bright yellow suit of but- 
terfly silk and the other wore a suit of dark- 
gray mothzine, which (as perhaps you know) 
is a dainty fabric made of the fine strands 
which gray moths spin. Each of these fair- 
ies was of the height of a small cambric 
needle and both together would not have 
weighed much more than the one-sixteenth 


203 


SECOND BOOK 


part of four dewdrops. You will under- 
stand from this that these fairies were as 
tiny creatures as could well be imagined. 

‘¢Sweet-One-Darling! oh, Sweet-One- 
Darling!” they cried softly. ‘‘ Where are 
youre” 

Sweet-One-Darling pretended that she 
did not hear, and she cuddled down close in 
her cradle and laughed heartily, all to her- 
self. The mischievous little thing knew 
well enough whom they were calling, and I 
am sure she knew what they wanted. But 
she meant to fool them and hide from them 
awhile — that is why she did not answer. 
But nobody can hide from the Dream-Fair- 
ies, and least of all could Sweet-One-Darling 
hide from them, for presently her laughter 
betrayed her and the two Dream-Fairies 
perched on her cradle — one at each side — 
and looked smilingly down upon her. 

“Hullo!” said Sweet-One-Darling, for 
she saw that her hiding-place was discov- 
ered. This was the first time I had ever 
heard her speak, and I did not know till then 
that even wee little babies talk with fairies, 
particularly Dream-Fairies. 


204 


OF FALES 


“Hullo, Sweet-One-Darling!”’ said Gleam- 
o’-the-Murk, for that was the name of the 
Dream-Fairy in the dark-gray mothzine. 

‘*And hullo from me, too!” cried Frisk- 
and-Glitter, the other visitor — the one in the 
butterfly-silk suit. 

‘“You have come earlier than usual,” sug- 
gested Sweet-One-Darling. 

‘*No, indeed,”’ answered Frisk-and-Glit- 
ter; ‘‘this is the accustomed hour, but the 
day has been so happy that it has passed 
quickly. For that reason you should be glad 
to see me, for | bring dreams of the day — 
the beautiful golden day, with its benedic- 
tion of sunlight, its grace of warmth, and its 
wealth of mirth and play.” 

‘““And J,” said Gleam-o’-the-Murk, ‘‘/ 
bring dreams, too. But my dreams are of 
the night, and they are full of the gentle, 
soothing music of the winds, of the pines, 
and of the crickets! and they are full of fair 
visions in which you shall see the things of 
Fairyland and of Dreamland and of all the 
mysterious countries that compose the vast 
world of Somewhere away out beyond the 
silvery mist of Night.” 

205 


SECOND BOOK 


‘‘Dear me!” cried Sweet-One-Darling. 
‘‘1 should never be able to make a choice 
between you two, for both of you are equally 
acceptable. Iam sure I should love to have 
the pleasant play of the daytime brought 
back to me, and I am quite as sure that | 
want to See all the pretty sights that are un- 
folded by the dreams which Gleam-o’-the- 
Murk brings.”’ 

Sweet-One-Darling was so distressed that 

her cunning little underlip drooped and quiv- 
ered perceptibly. She feared that her inde- 
cision would forfeit her the friendship of 
both the Dream-Fairies. 

‘You have no need to feel troubled,” said 
Frisk-and-Glitter, ‘‘ for you are not expected 
to make any choice between us. We have 
our own way of determining the question, 
as you Shall presently understand.”’ 

Then the Dream-Fairies explained that 
whenever they came of an evening to bring 
their dreams to a little child they seated 
themselves on the child’s eyelids and tried 
to rock them down. Gleam-o’-the-Murk 
would sit and rock upon one eyelid and 
Frisk-and-Glitter would sit and rock on the 


206 


OF TALES 


other. If Gleam-o’-the-Murk’s eyelid closed 
first the child would dream the dreams 
Gleam-o’-the-Murk brought it; if Frisk-and- 
Glitter’s eyelid closed first, why, then, of 
course, the child dreamt the dreams Frisk- 
and-Glitter brought. It would be hard to 
conceive of an arrangement more amicable. 

‘“But suppose,” suggested Sweet-One- 
Darling, ‘‘ suppose both eyelids close at the 
same instant? Which one of you fairies 
has his own way, then ? ”’ 

‘* Ah, in that event,” said they, ‘‘ neither 
of us wins, and, since neither wins, the 
Sleeper does not dream at all, but awakes 
next morning from a sound, dreamless, re- 
freshing sleep.” 

Sweet-One-Darling was not sure that she 
fancied this alternative, but of course she 
could not help herself. So she let the two 
little Dream-Fairies flutter across her shoul- 
ders and clamber up her cheeks to their 
proper places upon her eyelids. Gracious! 
but how heavy they seemed when they 
once stood on her eyelids! As I told you 
before their actual combined weight hardly 
exceeded the sixteenth part of four dew- 


207 


SECOND BOOK 


drops, yet when they are perched on a little 
child’s eyelids (tired eyelids at that) it really 
seems sometimes as if they weighed a ton! 
It was just all she could do to keep her eye- 
lids open, yet Sweet-One-Darling was de- 
termined to be strictly neutral. She loved 
both the Dream-Fairies equally well, and she 
would not for all the world have shown 
either one any partiality. 

Well, there the two Dream-Fairies sat on 
Sweet-One-Darling’s eyelids, each one try- 
ing to rock his particular eyelid down; and 
each one sung his little lullaby in the piping- 
est voice imaginable. I am not positive, 
but as nearly as I can remember Frisk-and- 
Glitter’s song ran in this wise: 


Dream, dream, dream 

Of meadow, wood, and stream; 
Of bird and bee, 
Of flower and tree, 

All under the noonday gleam; 
Of the song and play 
Of mirthful day — 

Dream, dream, dream! 


This was very soothing, as you would 
suppose. While Frisk-and-Glitter sung it 


208 


OF TALES 


Sweet-One-Darling’s eyelid drooped and 
drooped and drooped until, goodness me! 
it seemed actually closed. But at the criti- 
cal moment, the other Dream-Fairy, Gleam- 
o’-the-Murk, would pipe up his song some- 
what in this fashion: 


Dream, dream, dream 

Of glamour, glint, and gleam; 
Of the hushaby things 
The night wind sings 

To the moon and the stars abeam; 
Of whimsical sights 

_ Inthe land o’ sprites 
Dream, dream, dream! 


Under the spell of this pretty. lullaby, the 
other eyelid would speedily overtake the 
first and so for a goodly time there was act- 
ually no such thing even as guessing which 
of those two eyelids would close sooner 
than the other. It was the most exciting 
contest (for an amicable one) I ever saw. As 
for Sweet-One-Darling, she seemed to be 
lost presently in the magic of the Dream- 
Fairies, and although she has never said a 
word about it to me I am quite sure that, 
while her dear eyelids drooped and drooped 


209 


SECOND BOOK 


and drooped to the rocking and the singing 
of the Dream-Fairies, it was her lot to enjoy 
a confusion of all those precious things 
promised by her two fairy visitors. Yes, | 
am sure that from under her drooping eye- 
lids she beheld the scenes of the mirthful 
day intermingled with peeps of fairyland, 
and that she heard (or seemed to hear) the 
music of dreamland harmonizing with the 
more familiar sounds of this world of ours. 
And when at last she was fast asleep | could 
not say for certain which of her eyelids had 
closed first, so simultaneous was the down- 
fall of her long dark lashes upon her flushed 
cheeks. I meant to have asked the Dream- 
Fairies about it, but before I could do so 
they whisked out of the window and awav 
with their dreams to a very sleepy little boy 
who was waiting for them somewhere in 
the neighborhood. So you see I am unable 
to tell you which of the Dream-Fairies won; 
maybe neither did; may be Sweet-One- 
_ Darling’s sleep that night was dreamless. | 
have questioned her about it and she will 
not answer me. 

This is all of the wonderful tale I had to tell. 


210 


OF TALES 


May be it will not seem so wonderful to you, 
for perhaps you, too, have felt the Dream- 
Fairies rocking your eyelids down with gen- 
tle lullaby music; perhaps you, too, know 
all the precious dreams they bring. In that 
case you will bear witness that my tale, even 
though it be not wonderful, is strictly true. 


311 





+ 


Awweet-One-—Darling and the 
Moon-Barden 


2 





SWEET-ONE-DARLING AND THE 
MOON-GARDEN 


NE time Sweet-One-Darling heard her 
brother, litthe Our-Golden-Son, talk- 
ing with the nurse. The nurse was a very 
wise woman and they called her Good-Old- 
Soul, because she was so kind to children. 
Little Our-Golden-Son was very knowing 
for a little boy only two years old, but there 
were several things he did not know about 
and one of these things troubled him a good . 
deal and he went to the wise nurse to find 
out all about it. 
pereileine, Good- Old Soul, said he, 
‘‘where did I come from P”’ 
Good-Old-Soul thought this a very natural 
question for little Our-Golden-Son to ask, 
for he was a precocious boy and was going 
to be a great man some time. 


215 


SECOND BOOK 


‘“‘T asked your mother that very question 
the other day,” said Good-Old-Soul, ‘‘ and 
what do you think she told me? She told 
me that the Doctor-Man brought you! She 
told me that one night she was wishing all 
to herself that she had a little boy with light 
golden hair and dark golden eyes. ‘If I had 
such a little boy,’ said she, ‘I should call 
him Our-Golden-Son.’ While she was talk- 
ing this way to herself, rap-tap-rap came a 
knock at the door. ‘Who is there?’ asked 
‘ your mother. ‘Iam the Doctor-Man,’ said 
the person outside, ‘and I have brought 
something for you.’ Then the Doctor-Man 
came in and he carried aboxinonehand. ‘I 
wonder what can be in the box!’ thought 
your mother. Now what do you suppose 
‘ it was P”’ 

‘*Bananas P”” said little Our-Golden-Son. 

‘No, no,’ answered Good-Old-Soul, ‘‘ it 
was nothing to eat; it was the cutest, pret- 
tiest little baby boy you ever saw! Oh, 
how glad your mother was, and what made 
her particularly happy was this: The little 
baby boy had light golden hair and dark 
golden eyes! ‘Did you really bring this 

216 


OF TALES 


precious little boy for me?’ asked your mo- 
ther. ‘Indeed | did,’ said the Doctor-Man, 
and he lifted the little creature out of the 
box and laid him very tenderly in your mo- 
ther’s arms. That ’s how you came, little 
Our-Golden-Son, and it was very good of the 
Doctor-Man to bring you, was n't it?” 

Little Our-Golden-Son was much pleased 
with this explanation. As for Sweet-One- 
Darling, she was hardly satisfied with what 
the nurse had told. Sothat night when the 
fairies — the Dream-Fairies — came, she re- 
peated the nurse’s words to them. 

«©What / want to know,” said Sweet-One- 
Darling, ‘‘is this: Where did the Doctor- 
Man get little Our-Golden Sone I don't 
doubt the truth of what Good-Old-Soul says, 
but Good-Old-Soul does n’t tell how the 
Doctor-Man came to have little Our-Golden- 
Son in the box.. How did little Our-Golden- 
Son happen to be in the box? Where did 
he come from before he got into the box?” 

“That is easy enough to answer,” said 
Gleam-o’-the-Murk. ‘‘We Dream-Fairies 
know all about it. Before he got into the 
Doctor-Man’s box little Our-Golden-Son 


217 





SECOND BOOK 


lived in the Moon. That’s where all little 
babies live before the Doctor-Man_ brings 
them: 

‘“‘Did I live there before the Doctor-Man 
brought me?” asked Sweet-One-Darling. 

‘*Of course you did,” said Gleam-o’-the- 
Murk. ‘‘I saw you there a long, long time 
before the Doctor-Man brought you.” 

‘*But I thought that the Moon was a big, 
round soda-cracker,’’ said Sweet-One-Dar- 
ling. 

That made the Dream-Fairies laugh. They 
assured Sweet-One-Darling that the Moon 
was nota soda-cracker, but a beautiful round 
piece of silver way, Way up in the sky, and 
that the stars were little Moons, bearing 
the same relationship (in point of size) to the 
old mother Moon that a dime does to a big 
silver dollar. 

‘‘And how big is the Moonp” asked 
Sweet-One-Darling. ‘‘Is it as big as this 
room P”’ 

‘‘Oh, very, very much bigger,” said the 
Dream-Fairies. 

‘‘T guess it must be as big as a house,” 
suggested Sweet-One-Darling. 

218 


OF TALES 


‘‘Bigger than a house,” answered Gleam- 
o’-the-Murk. 

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Sweet-One-Dar- 
ling, and she began to suspect that the 
Dream-Fairies were fooling her. 

But that night the Dream-Fairies took 
Sweet-One-Darling with them to the Moon! 
You don’t believe it, eh? Well, you wait 
until you ’ve heard all about it, and then, 
may be, you not only will believe it, but 
will want to go there, too. 

The Dream-Fairies lifted Sweet-One-Dar- 
ling carefully out of her cradle; then their 
wings went ‘‘ whir-r-r, whir-r-r’’ — you've 
heard a green fly buzzing against a window- 
pane, have n’t your That was the kind of 
whirring noise the Dream-Fairies’ wings 
made, with the pleasing difference that the 
Dream-Fairies’ wings produced a soft, sooth- 
ing music. The cricket under the honey- 
suckle by the window heard this music and 
saw the Dream-Fairies carrying Sweet-One- 
Darling away. ‘‘ Be sure to bring her back 
again,’ said the cricket, for he was a soci- 
able little fellow and was very fond of little 
children. 


219 


SECOND BOOK 


You can depend upon it that Sweet-One- 
Darling had a delightful time riding through 
the cool night air in the arms of those Dream- 
Fairies; it was a good deal like being a bird, 
only the Dream-Fairies flew very much 
faster than any bird can fly. As they sped 
along they told Sweet-One-Darling all about 
the wonderful things they saw and every- 
thing was new to Sweet-One-Darling, for 
she had never made any journeys before ex- 
cept in the little basket-carriage which Good- 
Old-Soul, her nurse, propelled every sunny 
morning up and down the street. Pretty 
soon they came to a beautiful river, which 
looked as if it were molten silver; but it 
was n't molten silver; it was a river of 
moonbeams. 

‘We will take a sail now,” said Gleam-o’- 
the-Murk. ‘‘ This river leads straight to the 
Moon, and it is well worth navigating.” 

So they all got into a boat that had a sail 
made out of ten thousand and ten baby-spi- 
ders’ webs, and away they sailed as merrily 
as you please. Sweet-One-Darling put her 
feet over the side of the boat and tried to 
trail them in the river, but the moonbeams 


220 


OF- TALES 


tickled her so that she could n’t stand it very 
long. And what do youthink? Whenshe 
pulled her feet back into the boat she found 
them covered with dimples. She did n't 
know what to make of these phenomena 
until the Dream-Fairies explained to her that 
a dimple always remains where a moon- 
beam tickles a little child. A dimple on the 
foot is a sure sign that one has been trailing 
in that beautiful silver river that leads to the 
Moon. 

By and by they got to the Moon. I can't 
begin to tell you how large it was; you ’d 
not believe me if I did. 

‘‘This is very lovely,’ said Sweet-One- 
Darling, ‘‘ but where are the little babies P”’ 

‘Surely you did n’t suppose you ’d find 
any babies here!” exclaimed the Dream-Fai- 
ries. ‘Why, in all this bright light the 
babies would never, never go to sleep! Oh, 
no; we ’ll have to look for the babies on 
the other side of the Moon.” 

‘¢Of course we shall,” said Sweet-One- 
Darling. ‘‘I might have guessed as much 
if! *d only stopped to think.” 

The Dream-Fairies showed Sweet-One- 


221 


’ 


SECOND BOOK 


Darling how to get to the edge of the Moon, 
and when she had crawled there she held 
on to the edge very fast and peeped over as 
cautiously as if she had been a timid little 
mouse instead of the bravest Sweet-One- 
Darling in all the world. She was very 
cautious and quiet, because the Dream- 
Fairies had told her that she must be very 
sure not to awaken any of the little babies, 
for there are no Mothers up there on the 
other side of the Moon, and if by any chance 
a little baby 1s awakened—why, as you 
would easily suppose, the consequences are 
exceedingly embarrassing. 

‘‘Can you see anything?” asked the 
Dream-Fairies of Sweet-One-Darling as she 
clung to the edge of the Moon and peeped 
over. 

‘“T should say I did!” exclaimed Sweet- 
One-Darling. ‘‘I never supposed there 
could be so beautiful a place. I see a large, 
fair garden, filled with shrubbery and flow- 
ers; there are fountains and velvety hillocks 
and silver lakes and embowered nooks. 
A soft, dim, golden light broods over the 
quiet spot.” 


to 
NV 
ty 


OF TALES 


“Yes, that is the light which shines 
through the Moon from the bright side; but 
it is very faint,” said the Dream-Fairies. 

‘“And I see the little babies asleep,” con- 
tinued Sweet-One-Darling. ‘‘ They are 
lying in the embowered nooks, near the 
fountains, upon the velvety hillocks, amid 
the flowers, under the trees, and upon the 
broad leaves of the lilies in the silver lakes. 
How cunning and plump and sweet they are 
—] must take some of them back with me!” 

If they had not been afraid of waking the 
babies the Dream-Fairies would have laughed 
uproariously at this suggestion. Just fancy 
Sweet-One-Darling, a baby herself, under- 
taking the care of a lot of other little babies 
fresh from the garden on the other side of 
the Moon! 

‘‘T wonder how they all came here in this 
Moon-Garden ?” asked Sweet-One-Darling. 
And the Dream-Fairies told her. 

They explained that whenever a mother 
upon earth asked for a little baby of her own 
her prayer floated up and up — many leagues 
up—and was borne to the other side of the 
Moon, where it fell and rested upon a lily 


223 


SECOND BOOK 


leaf or upon a bank of flowers in that beauti- 
ful garden. And resting there the prayer 
presently grew and grew until it became a 
cunning little baby! So when the Doctor- 
Man came with his box the baby was await- 
ing him, and he had only to carry the pre- 
cious little thing to the Mother and give her 
prayer back to her to keep and to love al- 
ways. There are so very many of these tiny 
babies in the Moon-Garden that sometimes 
—he does n't do it of purpose—but some- 
times the Doctor-Man brings the baby to 
the wrong mother, and that makes the real 
mother, who prayed for the baby, feel very, 
very badly. 

Well, I actually believe that Sweet-One- 
Darling would gladly have spent the rest 
of her life clinging to the edge of the Moon 
and peeping over at the babies in that beauti- 
ful garden. But the Dream-Fairies agreed 
that this would never do at all. They 
finally got Sweet-One-Darling away by 
promising to stop on their journey home to 
replenish her nursing bottle at the Milky 
Way, which, as perhaps you know, is a 
marvellous lacteal ocean in the very midst of 


224 


ORS TAEES 


the sky. This beverage had so peculiar and 
so soothing a charm that presently Sweet- 
One-Darling went sound asleep, and when 
she woke up—goodness me! it was late in 
the morning, and her brother, little Our- 
Golden-Son, was standing by her cradle, 
wondering why she did n’t wake up to look 
at his beautiful new toy elephant. 

Sweet-One-Darling told Good-Old-Soul 
and little Our-Golden-Son all about the gar- 
den on the other side of the Moon. 

‘‘T am sure it is true,” said Good-Old- 
Soul. ‘‘And now that I come to think of 
it, that is the reason why the Moon always 
turns her bright side toward our earth! If 
the other side were turned this way the light 
of the sun and the noise we make would 
surely awaken and frighten those poor little 
babies!” | 

Little Our-Golden-Son believed the story, 
too. And if Good-Old-Soul and little Our- 
Golden-Son believed it, why should n’t you ? 
If it were not true how could I have known 
all about it and told it to youre 


225 





e 


Danuel Cotvies 
and his Porse Liopal 


e 





SAMUEL COWLES 
ANOeIS HORSE ROYAL 


HE day on which I was twelve years 
old my father said to me: ‘‘ Samuel, 
walk down the lane with me to the pasture- 
lot; 1 want to show you something.” Never 
suspicioning anything, I trudged along with 
father, and what should | find in the pas- 
ture lot but the cunningest, prettiest, liveli- 
est colt a boy ever clapped eyes on! 

‘“That is my birthday present to you,” 
said father. ‘‘ Yes, Samuel, | give the colt 
to you to do with as you like, for you ’ve 
been a good boy and have done well at 
school.”’ 

You can easily understand that my boyish 
heart overflowed with pride and joy and 
gratitude. A great many years have elapsed - 
since that time, but I have n’t forgotten and 


229 


SECOND BOOK 


I never shall forget the delight of that mo- 
ment, when I realized that | had a colt of my 
own—a real, live colt, and a Morgan colt, . 
at that! 

‘How old is he, father?” I asked. 

‘““A week old, come to-morrow,” said 
father. 

‘‘Has Judge Phipps seen him yet?” I 
asked. 

‘No; nobody has seen him but you and 
me and the hired man.” 

Judge Phipps was the justice of the peace. 
I had a profound respect for him, for what 
he did n’t know about horses was n’t worth 
knowing; I was sure of this, because the 
judge himself told me so. One of the first 
duties to which I applied myself was to go 
and get the judge and show him the colt. 
The judge praised the pretty creature inor- 
dinately, enumerating all his admirable points 
and predicting a famous career for him. 
The judge even went so far as to express the 
conviction that in due time my colt would 
win ‘‘imperishable renown and immortal 
laurels as acompetitor at the meetings of the 
Hampshire County Trotting Association,” of 


230 


OR TALES 


which association the judge was the presi- 
dent, much to the scandal of his estimable 
wife, who viewed with pious horror her 
husband’s connection with the race-track. 

‘What do you think 1 ought to name my 
colt?’ I asked of the judge. 

‘‘When I was about your age,” the judge 
answered, ‘‘I had a colt and I named him 
Royal. He won all the premiums at the 
county fair before he was six year old.”’ 

That was quite enough for me. To my 
thinking every utterance of the judge’s was 
ex cathedra; moreover, in my boyish exuber- 
ance, I fancied that this name would start 
my colt auspiciously upon a famous career; 
I began at once to think and to speak of him 
as the prospective winner of countless 
honors. 

From the moment when | first set eyes on 
Royal I was his stanch friend; even now, 
after the lapse of years, | cannot think of my 
old companion without feeling here in my 
breast a sense of gratitude that that honest, 
patient, loyal friend entered so largely into 
my earlier life. 

Twice a day I used to trudge down the 


231 


SECOND BOOK 


lane to the pasture-lot to look at the colt, 
and invariably I was accompanied by a troop 
of boy acquaintances who heartily envied 
me my good luck, and who regaled me con- 
stantly with suggestions of what they would 
do if Royal were their colt. Royal soon be- 
came friendly with us all, and he would re- 
spond to my call, whinnying to meas I came 
down the lane, as much as to say: ‘‘Good 
morning to you, little master! I hope you 
are coming to have aromp with me.” And, 
gracious! how he would curve his tail and 
throw up his head and gather his short body 
together and trot around the pasture-lot on 
those long legs of his! He enjoyed life, 
Royal did, as much as we boys enjoyed it. 
Naturally enough, I made all sorts of plans 
for Royal. | recall that, after I had been 
on a visit to Springfield and had beholden 
for the first time the marvels of Barnum’s 
show, I made up my mind that when Royal 
and I were old enough we would unite our 
fortunes with those of a circus, and in my 
imagination I already pictured huge and 
gaudy posters announcing the blood-cur- 
dling performances of the dashing bareback 


232 


OF TALES 


equestrian, Samuel Cowles, upon his fiery 
Morgan steed, Royal! This plan was not 
at all approved of by Judge Phipps, who 
continued to insist that it was on the turf 
and not in the sawdust circle that Royal’s 
genius lay, and to this way of thinking | 
was finally converted, but not until the judge 
had promised to give me a sulky as soon as 
Royal demonstrated his ability to make a 
mile in 2:40. 

Itis not without a sigh of regret that in my 
present narrative I pass over the five years 
next succeeding the date of Royal's arrival. 
For they were very happy years — indeed, at 
this distant period I am able to recall only 
that my boyhood was full, brimful of happi- 
ness. I broke Royal myself; father and the 
hired man stood around and made sugges- 
tions, and at times they presumed to take a 
hand in the proceedings. Virtually, how- 
ever, | broke Royal to the harness and to the 
saddle, and after that I was even more at- 
tached to him than ever before — you know 
how it is, if ever you’ve broken a colt your- 
self ! 

When I went away to college it seemed 

233 


SECOND BOOK 


to me that leaving Royal was almost as hard 
as leaving mother and father; you see the 
colt had becomea very large part of my boy- 
ish life— followed me like a pet dog, was 
lonesome when | was n’t round, used to rub 
his nose against my arm and look lovingly 
at me out of his big, dark, mournful eyes — 
yes, I cried when I said good-by to him the 
morning I started for Williamstown. Iwas 
ashamed of it then, but not now —no, not 
now. 

But my fun was all the keener, I guess, 
when I came home at vacation times. Then 
we had it, up hill and down dale — Royal 
and I did! In the summer-time along the 
narrow roads we trailed, and through leafy 
lanes, and in my exultation | would cut at 
the tall weeds at the roadside and whisk at 
the boughs arching overhead, as if I were a 
warrior mounted for battle and these other 
things were human victims to my valor. In 
the winter we sped away over the snow 
and ice, careless to the howling of the wind 
and the wrath of the storm. Royal knew 
the favorite road, every inch of the way; he 
knew, too, when Susie held the reins — 


234 


OFS TALES 


Susie was Judge Phipps’ niece, and | guess 
she ’‘d have mittened me if it had n’t been 
that I had the finest colt in the county! 

The summer | left college there came to 
me an overwhelming sense of patriotic duty. 
Mother was the first to notice my absent- 
mindedness, and to her I first confided the 
great wish of my early manhood. | It is hard 
for parents to bid a son go forth to do ser- 
vice upon the battlefield, but New England 
in those times responded cheerfully and 
nobly to Mr. Lincoln’s call. The Eighth Mas- 
sachusetts cavalry was the regiment | en- 
listed in; a baker’s dozen of us boys went 
together from the quiet little village nestling 
in the shadow of Mount Holyoke. From 
Camp Andrew I wrote back a piteous letter, 
complaining of the horse that had been as- 
signed to me; I wanted Royal; we had 
been inseparable in times of peace — why 
should we not share together the fortunes 
of war? Within a fortnight along came 
Royal, conducted in all dignity by — you 
would never guess —by Judge Phipps! Full 
of patriotism and of cheer was the judge. 

‘*Both of ye are thoroughbreds,”’ said he. 


235 


SECOND BOOK 


‘“Ye ‘Il come in under the wire first every 
time, | know ye will.” 

The judge also brought mea saddle blanket 
which Susie had ornamented with wondrous 
and tender art. 

So Royal and I went into the war together. 
There were times of privation and of danger; 
neither of us ever complained. Iam proud 
to bear witness that in every emergency my 
horse bore himself with a patience and a 
valor that seemed actually human. My com- 
rades envied me my gentle, stanch, obedient 
servant. Indeed, Royal and I became fa- 
mous as inseparable and loyal friends. 

We were in five battles and neither of 
us got even so much as ascratch. But one 
afternoon in a skirmish with the rebels near 
Potomac Mills a bullet struck me in the 
thigh, and from the mere shock | fell from 
Royal's back into the tangle of the thicket. 
The fall must have stunned me, for the next 
thing I knew I was alone— deserted of all 
except my faithful horse. Royal stood over 
me, and when I opened my eyes he gave a 
faint whinny. I hardly knew what to do. 
My leg pained me excruciatingly. I sur- 

236 


OF TALES 


mised that | would never be able to make 
my way back to camp under the fire of the 
rebel picketers, for | discovered that they 
were closing in. 

Then it occurred to me to pin a note to 
Royal’s saddle blanket and to send Royal 
back to camp telling the boys of the trouble 
I was in. The horse understood it all; off 
he galloped, conscious of the import of the 
mission upon which he had been dispatched. 
Bang-bang-bang! went the guns over yon- 
der, as if the revengeful creatures in the far- 
off brush guessed the meaning of our manceu- 
vering and sought to slay my loyal friend. 
But not a bullet touched him — leastwise he 
galloped on and on till I lost sight of him. 

They came for me at last, the boys did; 
they were a formidable detachment, and how 
the earth shook as they swept along! 

‘““We thought you were a goner, sure,” 
said Hi Bixby. 

‘‘T guess I would have been if it had n't 
been for Royal,” said I. 

“TI guess so, myself,” said he. ‘‘ When 
we saw him stumblin’ along all bloody we 
allowed for sure you was dead!” 


237 


SECOND BOOK 


‘“All blood?” I cried. ‘‘Is Royal hurt P”’ 

‘As bad as a hoss can be,”’ said he. 

In camp we found them doing the best 
they could for him. But it was clearly of 
no avail. There was a gaping, ragged hole 
in his side; seeking succor for me, Royal 
had met his death-wound. I forgot my own 
hurt; [ thrust the others aside and hobbled 
where he lay. 

‘*Poor old Roy!” I cried, as 1 threw my- 
self beside my dying friend and put my arms 
about his neck. Then! patted and stroked 
him and called him again and again by 
name, and there was a look in his eyes that 
told me he knew me and was glad that | 
was there. 

How strange, and yet how beautiful, it 
was that in that far-off country, with my 
brave, patient, loyal friend’s fluttering heart 
close unto mine, I neither saw nor thought 
of the scene around me. 

But before my eyes came back the old, 
familiar places —the pasture lot, the lane, 
the narrow road up the hill, the river wind- 
ing along between great stretches of brown 
corn, the aisle of maple trees, and the foun- 

238 


OF TALES 


tain where we drank so many, many times 
together—and | smelled the fragrance of the 
flowers and trees abloom, and | heard the 
dear voices and the sweet sounds of my 
boyhood days. 

Then presently a mighty shudder awak- 
ened me from this dreaming. And I cried 
out with affright and grief, for I felt that | 
was alone. 


ial 


H y a 
Pee re ts 
Shee 





¥ 
Che Weretvolf 


+ 


De 





THE WEREWOLF 


N the reign of Egbert the Saxon there 
dwelt in Britain a maiden named Yseult, 
who was beloved of all, both for her good- 
ness and for her beauty. But, though 
many a youth came wooing her, she loved 
Harold only, and to him she plighted her 
troth. 

Among the other youth of whom Yseult 
was beloved was Alfred, and he was sore 
angered that Yseult showed favor to Har- 
old, so that one day Alfred said to Harold: 
“Is it right that old Siegfried should come 
from his grave and have Yseult to wife?”’ 
Then added he, ‘‘Prithee, good sir, why do 
you turn so white when I speak your grand- 
Sire’s name P” 

Then Harold asked, ‘‘ What know you of 
Siegfried that you taunt me? What mem- 
ory of him should vex me now P”’ 


243 


Yim 


SECOND BOOK 


‘““We know and we know,”’ retorted Al- 
fred. ‘‘ There are some tales told us by our 
grandmas we have not forgot.” 

So ever after that Alfred's words and AI- 
fred’s bitter smile haunted Harold by day and 
night. 

Harold’s grandsire, Siegfried the Teuton, 
had been a man of cruel violence. The le- 
gend said that a curse rested upon him, and 
that at certain times he was possessed of an 
evil spirit that wreaked its fury on mankind. 
But Siegfried had been dead full many years, 
and there was naught to mind the world of 
him save the legend and a cunning-wrought 
spear which he had from Brunehilde, the 
witch. This spear was such a weapon that 
it never lost its brightness, nor had its point 
been blunted. It hung in Harold’s chamber, 
and it was the marvel among weapons of 
that time. 

Yseult knew that Alfred loved her, but she 
did not know of the bitter words which 
Alfred had spoken to Harold. Her love for 
Harold was perfect in its trust and gentle- 
ness. But Alfred had hit the truth: the curse 
of old Siegfried was upon Harold —slumber- 


244 


OF TALES 
ing a century, it had awakened in the blood 
of the grandson, and Harold knew the curse 
that was upon him, and it was this that 
seemed to stand between him and Yseult. 
But love is stronger than all else, and Harold 
loved. 

Harold did not tell Yseult of the curse that 
was upon him, for he feared that she would 
not love him if she knew. Whensoever he 
felt the fire of the curse burning in his veins 
he would say to her, ‘‘ To-morrow | hunt 
the wild boar in the uttermost forest,’’ or, 
‘“Next week I go stag-stalking among the 
distant northern hills.” Even so it was that 
he ever made good excuse for his absence, 
and Yseult thought no evil things, for she 
was trustful; ay, though he went many times 
away and was long gone, Yseult suspected 
no wrong. So none beheld Harold when 
the curse was upon him in its violence. 

Alfred alone bethought himself of evil 
things. ‘‘’T is passing strange,” quoth he, 
‘‘that ever and anon this gallant lover should 
quit our company and betake himself whither 
none knoweth. In sooth ’t will be well to 
have an eye on old Siegfried’s grandson.” 


245 


SECOND BOOK 


Harold knew that Alfred watched him 
zealously, and he was tormented by a con- 
stant fear that Alfred would discover the 
curse that was on him; but what gave him 
greater anguish was the fear that mayhap at 
some moment when he was in Yseult’s 
presence, the curse would seize upon him 
and cause him to do great evil unto her, 
whereby she would be destroyed or her love 
for him would be undone forever. So Har- 
old lived in terror, feeling that his love was 
hopeless, yet knowing not how to combat it. 

Now, it befell in those times that the coun- 
try round about was ravaged of a werewolf, 
a creature that was feared by all men howe’er 
so valorous. This werewolf was by day a 
man, but by night a wolf given to ravage 
and to slaughter, and having a charmed life 
against which no human agency availed 
aught. Wheresoever he went he attacked 
and devoured mankind, spreading terror and 
desolation round about, and the dream-read- 
ers said that the earth would not be freed 
from the werewolf until some man offered 
himself a voluntary sacrifice to the monster's 
rage. 


246 


OR KALES 


Now, although Harold was known far and 
wide as a mighty huntsman, he had never 
set forth to hunt the werewolf, and, strange 
enow, the werewolf never ravaged the do- 
main while Harold was therein. Whereat 
Alfred marvelled much, and oftentimes he 
said: ‘‘Our Harold is a wondrous hunts- 
man. Who is like unto him in stalking the 
timid doe and in crippling the fleeing boar 
But how passing well doth he time his ab- 
sence from the haunts of the werewolf. 
Such valor beseemeth our young Siegfried.” 

Which being brought to Harold his heart 
flamed with anger, but he made no answer, 
lest he should betray the truth he feared. 

It happened so about that time that Yseult 
said to Harold, ‘‘ Wilt thou go with me to- 
morrow even to the feast in the sacred 
grove?” 

‘‘ That can I not do,” answered Harold. 
‘‘Tam privily summoned hence to Normandy 
upon a mission of which I shall some time 
tell thee. And! pray thee, on thy love for 
me, go not to the feast in the sacred grove 
without me.” 

‘“What say’st thoure” cried Yseult. 


247 


SECOND BOOK 


‘« Shall I not go to the feast of Ste. Elfreda P 
My father would be sore displeased were | 
not there with the other maidens. ’T were 
greatest pity that I should despite his love 
thus.” 

‘‘But do not, I beseech thee,” Harold 
implored. ‘‘Go not to the feast of Ste. 
/Elfreda in the sacred grove! And thou 
would thus love me, go not—see, thou my 
life, on my two knees I ask it!” 

‘‘How pale thou art,” said Yseult, ‘‘ and 
trembling.” 

‘Go not to the sacred grove upon the 
morrow night,” he begged. 

Yseult marvelled at his acts and at his 
speech. Then, for the first time, she thought 
him to be jealous— whereat she secretly re- 
joiced (being a woman). 

‘« Ah,” quoth she, ‘‘ thou dost doubt my 
love,’ but when she saw a look of pain 
come on his face she added —as if she re- 
pented of the words she had spoken— ‘‘ or 
dost thou fear the werewolf ?”’ 

Then Harold answered, fixing his eyes on 
hers, ‘‘ Thou hast said it; it is the werewolf 
that I fear.” 

248 


OF TALES 


‘Why dost thou look at me so strangely, 
Harold P”’ cried Yseult. ‘‘ By the cruel light 
in thine eyes one might almost take thee to 
be the werewolf !” 

‘Come hither, sit beside me,” said Har- 
old tremblingly, ‘‘ and I will tell thee why I 
fear to have thee go to the feast of Ste. 
fElfreda to-morrow evening. Hear what I 
dreamed last night. I dreamed I was the 
werewolf—do not shudder, dear love, for 
't was only a dream. 

‘* A grizzled old man stood at my bedside 
and strove to pluck my soul from my bosom. 

‘«* What would’st thou ?’ I cried. 

‘«« Thy soul is mine,’ he said, ‘ thou shalt 
live out my curse. Give me thy soul—hold 
back thy hands—give me thy soul, I say.’ 

‘“*Thy curse shall not be upon me,’ I 
cried. ‘What have I done that thy curse 
should rest upon me? Thou shalt not have 
my soul.’ 

““*For my offence shalt thou suffer, and 
in my curse thou shalt endure hell—it is so 
decreed.’ 

‘*So spake the old man, and he strove 
with me, and he prevailed against me, and 


249 


SECOND BOOK 


he plucked my soul from my bosom, and 
he said, ‘Go, search and kill’ —and—and 
lo, I was a wolf upon the moor. 

‘The dry grass crackled beneath my 
tread. The darkness of the night was heavy 
and it oppressed me. Strange horrors tor- 
tured my soul, and it groaned and groaned, 
gaoled in that wolfish body. The wind 
whispered to me; with its myriad voices it 
spake to me and said, ‘ Go, search and kill.’ 
And above these voices sounded the hideous 
laughter of an old man. I fled the moor — 
whither I knew not, nor knew! what motive 
lashed me on. 

‘‘T came to a river and I plunged in. A 
burning thirst consumed me, and I lapped 
the waters of the river—they were waves 
of flame, and they flashed around me and 
hissed, and what.they said was, ‘ Go, search 
and kill,’ and I heard the old man’s laughter 
again. 

‘‘A forest lay before me with its gloomy 
thickets and its sombre shadows— with its 
ravens, its vampires, its serpents, its reptiles, 
and all its hideous brood of night. I darted 
among its thorns and crouched amid the 


250 


OF FALES 


leaves, the nettles, and the brambles. The 
owls hooted at me and the thorns pierced 
my flesh. ‘Go, search and kill,’ said every- 
thing. The hares sprang from my _ path- 
way; the other beasts ran bellowing away; 
every form of life shrieked in my ears—the 
curse was on me—I was the werewolf. 

‘On, on I went with the fleetness of the 
wind, and my soul groaned in its wolfish 
prison, and the winds and the waters and 
the trees bade me, ‘Go, search and kill, 
thou accursed brute; go, search and kill.’ 

‘*Nowhere was there pity for the wolf; 
what mercy, thus, should I, the werewolf, 
show? The curse was on me and it filled 
me with a hunger and a thirst for blood. 
Skulking on my way within myself I cried, 
‘Let me have blood, oh, let me have human 
blood, that this wrath may be appeased, that 
this curse may be removed.’ 

‘At last I came to the sacred grove. 
Sombre loomed the poplars, the oaks 
frowned upon me. Before me stood an old 
man—’twas he, grizzled and _ taunting, 
whose curse I bore. He feared me not. All 
other living things fled before me, but the 


251 


SECOND BOOK 


old man feared me not. A maiden stood 
beside him. She did not see me, for she 
was blind. 

«© ¢ Kill, kill,’ cried the old man, and he 
pointed at the girl beside him. 

‘Hell raged within me—the curse im- 
pelled me—I sprang at her throat. | heard 
the old man’s laughter once more, and then 
—then I awoke, trembling, cold, horrified.” 

Scarce was this dream told when Alfred 
strode that way. 

‘Now, by’r Lady,” quoth he, ‘‘] bethink 
me never to have seen a sorrier twain.” 

Then Yseult told him of Harold’s going 
away and how that Harold had besought 
her not to venture to the feast of Ste. /Elfreda 
in the sacred grove. 

‘‘ These fears are childish,” cried Alfred 
boastfully. ‘‘ And thou sufferest me, sweet 
lady, I will bear thee company to the feast, 
and a score of my lusty yeomen with their 
good yew-bows and honest spears, they 
shall attend me. There be no werewolf, | 
trow, will chance about with us.” 

Whereat Yseult laughed merrily, and Har- 
old said: ‘‘’T is well; thou shalt go to the 


252 


OF TALES 


sacred grove, and may my love and Heaven's 
grace forefend all evil.” 

Then Harold went to his abode, and he 
fetched old Siegfried’s spear back unto 
Yseult, and he gave it into her two hands, 
saying, ‘‘ Take this spear with thee to the 
feast to-morrow night. It is old Siegfried’s 
spear, possessing mighty virtue and marvel- 
lous.”’ 

And Harold took Yseult to his heart and 
blessed her, and he kissed her upon her brow 
and upon her lips, saying, ‘‘ Farewell, oh, 
my beloved. How wilt thou love me when 
thou know’st my sacrifice. Farewell, fare- 
well forever, oh, alder-liefest mine.” 

So Harold went his way, and Yseult was 
lost in wonderment. 

On the morrow night came Yseult to the 
sacred grove wherein the feast was spread, 
and she bore old Siegfried’s spear with her 
in her girdle. Alfred attended her, and a 
score of lusty yeomen were with him. In 
the grove there was great merriment, and 
with singing and dancing and games withal 
did the honest folk celebrate the feast of the 
fair Ste. 7Elfreda. 


253 


SECOND BOOK 


But suddenly a mighty tumult arose, and 
there were cries of ‘‘ The werewolf!” ‘‘ The 
werewolf!”’ Terror seized upon all—stout 
hearts were frozen with fear. Out from the 
further forest rushed the werewolf, wood 
wroth, bellowing hoarsely, gnashing his 
fangs and tossing hither and thither the yel- 
low foam from his snapping jaws. He 
sought Yseult straight, as if an evil power 
drew him to the spot where she stood. But 
Yseult was not afeared; like a marble statue 
she stood and saw the werewolf’s coming. 
The yeomen, dropping their torches and 
casting aside their bows, had fled; Alfred 
alone abided there to do the monster battle. 

At the approaching wolf he hurled his 
heavy lance, but as it struck the werewolf’s 
bristling back the weapon was all to-shiv- 
ered. 

Then the werewolf, fixing his eyes upon 
Yseult, skulked for a moment in the shadow 
of the yews, and thinking then of Harold’s 
words, Yseult plucked old Siegfried’s spear 
from her girdle, raised it on high, and with 
the strength of despair sentit hurtling through 
the air. 


254 


OF TALES 


The werewolf saw the shining weapon, 
and a cry burst from his gaping throat —a 
cry of human agony. And Yseult saw in 
the werewolf’s eyes the eyes of some one 
she had seen and known, but ’t was for an 
instant only, and then the eyes were no 
longer human, but wolfish in their ferocity. 

A supernatural force seemed to speed the 
spear in its flight. With fearful precision 
the weapon smote home and buried itself 
by half its length in the werewolf’s shaggy 
breast just above the heart, and then, witha 
monstrous sigh—as if he yielded up his life 
without regret—the werewolf fell dead in 
the shadow of the yews. 

Then, ah, then in very truth there was 
great joy, and loud were the acclaims, while, 
beautiful in her trembling pallor, Yseult was 
led unto her home, where the people set 
about to give great feast to do her homage, 
for the werewolf was dead, and she it was 
that had slain him. 

But Yseult cried out: ‘‘ Go, search for 
Harold— go, bring him tome. Nor eat, nor 
sleep till he be found.” 

““Good my lady,” quoth Alfred, ‘‘ how 


252 





SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


can that be, since he hath betaken himself to 
Normandy P”’ 

‘“*] care not where he be,” she cried. 
‘‘My heart stands still until I look into his 
eyes again.” 

‘‘ Surely he hath not gone to Normandy,” 
outspake Hubert. ‘‘ This very eventide | 
saw him enter his abode.” 

They hastened thither —a vast company. 
His chamber door was barred. 

‘Harold, Harold, come forth!”’ they cried, 
as they beat upon the door, but no answer 
came to their calls and knockings. Afeared, 
they battered down the door, and when it 
fell they saw that Harold lay upon his bed. 

‘* He sleeps,’’) said vone. ' t°Seesheshords 
a portrait in his hand—and it is her portrait. 
How fair he is and how tranquilly he sleeps.” 

But no, Harold was not asleep. His face 
was calm and beautiful, as if he dreamed of 
his beloved, Fut his raiment was red with 
the blood that streamed from a wound in 
his breast —a gaping, ghastly spear wound 
just above his heart. 


, 


256 


+ 
From “Culture’s Garland” 





A MARVELLOUS INVENTION 


T is narrated, that, once upon a time, there 
lived a youth who required so much 
money for the gratification of his dissolute 
desires, that he was compelled to sell his 
library in order to secure funds. Thereupon, 
he despatched a letter to his venerable father, 
saying, ‘‘ Rejoice with me, O father! for al- 
ready am I| beginning to live upon the profits 
of my books.” 

Professor Andrew J. Thorpe has invented 
an ingenious machine which will be likely to 
redound to the physical comfort and the 
intellectual benefit of our fellow-citizens. 
We are disposed to treat of this invention at 
length, for two reasons: first, because it is 
a Chicago invention; and, second, because 
it seems particularly calculated to answer an 
important demand that has existed in Chi- 
cago for a long time. Professor Thorpe’s 


259 


SECOND BOOK 


machine is nothing less than a combination 
parlor, library, and folding bedstead, adapted 
to the drawing-room, the study, the dining- 
room, and the sleeping apartment —a pro- 
ducer capable of giving to the world thou- 
sands upon thousands of tomes annually, 
and these, too, in a shape most attractive to 
our public. 

Professor Thorpe himself is of New-Eng- 
land birth and education; and, until he came 
West, he was called ‘‘ Uncle Andy Thorpe.” 
For many years he lived in New Britain, Con- 
necticut; and there he pursued the vocation 
of a manufacturer of sofas, settees, settles, and 
bed-lounges. He came to Chicago three 
years ago; and not long thereafter, he dis- 
covered that the most imperative demand of 
this community was for a bed which com- 
bined, ‘‘at one and the same time” (as he 
says, for he is no rhetorician), the advan- 
tages ofa bed and the advantages of a library. 
In a word, Chicago was a literary centre; 
and it required, even in the matter of its 
Sleeping apparata, machines which, when 
not in use for bed-purposes, could be utilized 
to the nobler ends of literary display. 


260 


OF TALES 


In this emergency the fertile Yankee wit 
of the immigrant came to his assistance; and 
about a year ago he put upon the market 
the ingenious and valuable combination 
which has commanded the admiration and 
patronage of our best literary circles, and 
which at this moment we are pleased to 
discourse of. 

It has been our good fortune to inspect 
the superb line of folding library-bedsteads 
which Professor Thorpe offers to the public 
at startlingly low figures, and we are sur- 
prised at the ingenuity and the learning ap- 
parent in these contrivances. The Essay 
bedstead is a particularly handsome piece of 
furniture, being made of polished mahogany, 
elaborately carved, and intricately embel- 
lished throughout. When closed, this bed- 
stead presents the verisimilitude of a large 
book-case filled with the essays of Emerson, 
Carlyle, Bacon, Montaigne, Hume, Macaulay, 
Addison, Steele, Johnson, Budgell, Hughes, 
and others. These volumes are made in one 
piece, of the best seasoned oak, and are 
hollow within throughout; so that each 
shelf constitutes in reality a chest or drawer 


261 


SECOND BOOK 


which may be utilized for divers domestic 
purposes. Inthese drawers a husband may 
keep his shirts or neckties; orin them a wife 
may stow away her furs or flannel under- 
wear in summer, and her white piqués and 
muslins in winter. 

These drawers (each of which extends to 
the height of twelve inches) are faced in 
superb tree-calf, and afford a perfect repre- 
sentation of rows of books, the title and 
number of each volume being printed in 
massive gold characters. The weight of 
the six drawers in this Essay bedstead does 
not exceed twelve pounds; but the machine 
is so stoutly built as to admit of the drawers 
containing a weight equivalent to six hun- 
dred pounds without interfering with the 
ease and nicety of the machine’s operation. 
Upon touching a gold-mounted knob, the 
book-case divides, the front part of it de- 
scends; and, presto! you have as beautifula 
couch as ever Sancho could have envied. 

This Essay bedstead is sold for four hun- 
dred and fifty dollars. Another design, with 
the case and bed in black walnut, the books 
in papier maché, and none but English es- 


BO? 


OF TALES 


sayists in the collection, can be had for a 
hundred dollars. 

A British Poets’ folding-bed can be had 
for three hundred dollars. This is an imita- 
tion of the blue-and-gold edition published 
in Boston some years ago. Busts of Shake- 
speare and of Wordsworth appearat the front 
upper corners of the book-case, and these 
serve as pedestals to the machine when it is 
unfolded into abedstead. This style, we are 
told by Professor Thorpe, has been officially 
indorsed by the poetry committee of the Chi- 
cago Literary Club. A second design, in 
royal octavo white pine, and omitting the 
works of Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, and 
Herrick, is quoted at a hundred and fifty 
dollars. 

The Historical folding-bed contains com- 
plete sets of Hume, Gibbon, Guizot, Pres- 
cott, Macaulay, Bancroft, Lingard, Buckle, 
etc., together with Haines’s ‘ History of 
Lake-County Indians” and Peck’s ‘‘ Gazet- 
teer- of Illinois,’ bound in half calf, and hav- 
ing a storage space of three feet by fourteen 
inches to each row, there being six rows of 
these books. Youcan get this folding-bed 

263 


SECOND BOOK 


for two hundred dollars, or there is a second 
set in cloth that can be had for a hundred 
dollars. 

The Dramatists’ folding-bed (No. 1) costs 
three hundred dollars, bound in tree-calf 
hard maple, the case being in polished 
cherry, elaborately carved. The works in- 
cluded in this library are Shakespeare’s, Schil- 
ler’s, Moliére’s, Goethe’s, Jonson’s, Bartley 
Campbell’s, and many others. Style No. 2 
of this folding-bed has not yet been issued, 
owing to some difficulty which Professor 
Thorpe has had with eastern publishers; 
but when the matter of copyright has been 
adjusted, the works of Plautus, Euripides, 
Thucydides, and other classic dramatists 
will be brought out for the delectation of 
appreciative Chicagoans. 

The Novelists’ bed can be had in numer- 
ous styles. One contains the novels of 
Mackenzie, Fielding, Smollett, Walpole, 
Dickens, Thackeray, and Scott, and is bound 
in tree-calf: another, better adapted to the 
serious-minded (especially to young wo- 
men), is made up of the novels of Maria 
Edgeworth, Miss Jane Porter, Miss Burney, 

264 


OF TALES 


and the Rev. E. P. Roe. This style can be 
had for fifty dollars. But the Novelists’ 
folding-bed is manufactured in a dozen dif- 
ferent styles, and one should consult the 
catalogue before ordering. 


THE STORY-*OF GXANTHIPRE 


CuIcaco, ILL. 
To THE Enitor: I am in a great dilemma, and! come 
to you for counsel. I love and wish to marry a young 
carpenter who has been waiting on me for two years. 
My father wants me to marry a literary man fifteen years 
older than myself, —a very smart man I will admit, but 
I fancy he is too smart for me. I much prefer the young 
carpenter, yet father says a marriage with the literary 
man would give me the social position he fancies I would 
enjoy. Now, whatamItodo? What would you do, 

if you were I? 
Yours in trouble, 
PRISCILLA. 


Listen, gentle maiden, and ye others of her 
sex, to the story of Xanthippe, the Athenian 
woman. 

Very, very many years ago there dwelt in 
Athens a fruit-dealer of the name of Kimon, 
who was possessed of two daughters, — the 
one named Helen and the other Xanthippe. 

266 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


At the age of twenty, Helen was wed to 
Aristagoras the tinker, and went with him 
to abide in his humble dwelling in the sub- 
urbs of Athens, about one parasang’s dis- 
tance from the Acropolis. 

Xanthippe, the younger sister, gave prom- 
ise of singular beauty; and at an early age 
she developed a wit that was the marvel and 
the joy of her father’s household, and of the 
society that was to be met with there. Pros- 
perous ina worldly way, Kimon was enabled 
to give this favorite daughter the best edu- 
cational advantages; and he was justly proud 
when at the age of nineteen Xanthippe was 
graduated from the Minerva Female College 
with all the highest honors of her class. 
There was but one thing that cast a shadow 
upon the old gentleman’s happiness, and that 
was his pain at observing that among all 
Xanthippe’s associates there was one upon 
whom she bestowed her sweetest smiles; 
namely, Gatippus, the son of Heliopharnes 
the plasterer. 

‘“My daughter,” said Kimon, ‘‘ you are 
now of an age when it becomes a maiden to 
contemplate marriage as a serious and solemn 

267 


SECOND BOOK 


probability: therefore I beseech you to prac- 
tise the severest discrimination in the choice 
of your male associates, and I enjoin upon 
you to have naught to say or to do with any 
youth that might not be considered an eli- 
gible husband; for, by the dog! it is my wish 
to see you wed to one of good station.” 

Kimon thereupon proceeded to tell his 
daughter that his dearest ambition had been 
a desire to unite her in marriage with a lit- 
erary man. He saw that the tendency of 
the times was in the direction of literature; 
schools of philosophy were springing up on 
every side, logic and poetry were prated in 
every household. Why should not the 
beautiful and accomplished daughter of Ki- 
mon the fruiterer become one of that group 
of geniuses who were contributing at that 
particular time to the glory of Athens as the 
literary centre of the world? The truth was 
that, having prospered in his trade, Kimon 
pined for social recognition; it grieved him 
that one of his daughters had wed a tinker, 
and he had registered a vow with Pallas that 
his other daughter should be given into the 
arms of a worthier man. 

268 


OF TALES 


Xanthippe was a dutiful daughter; she 
had been taught to obey her parents; and 
although her heart inclined to Gatippus, the 
son of Heliopharnes the plasterer, she smoth- 
ered all rebellious emotions, and said she 
would try to do her father’s will. Accord- 
ingly, therefore, Kimon introduced into his 
home one evening a certain young Athenian 
philosopher,—a typical literary Bohemian of 
that time,— one Socrates, a creature of won- 
drous wisdom and ready wit. 

The appearance of this suitor, presumptive 
if not apparent, did not particularly please 
Xanthippe. Socrates was an_ ill-favored 
young man. He was tall, raw-boned, and 
gangling. When he walked, he slouched; 
and when he sat down, he sprawled like a 
crab upon its back. His coarse hair rebelled 
upon his head and chin; and he had a broad, 
flat nose, that had been broken in two places 
by the kick of an Assyrian mule. Withal, 
Socrates talked delightfully; and it is not 
hard to imagine that Xanthippe’s pretty face, 
plump figure, and vivacious manners served 
as an inspiration to the young philosopher’s 
wit. So it was not long ere Xanthippe 

269 


SECOND BOOK 


found herself entertaining a profound respect 
for Socrates. 

At all events, Xanthippe, the Athenian 
beauty, was wed to Socrates the philoso- 
pher. Putting all thought of Gatippus, the 
son of Heliopharnes the plasterer, out of her 
mind, Xanthippe went to the temple of Aph- 
rodite, and was wed to Socrates. Historians 
differ as to the details of the affair; but it 
seems generally agreed that Socrates was 
late at the ceremony, having been delayed 
on his way to the temple by one Diogenes, 
who asked to converse with him on the im- 
mortality of the soul. Socrates stopped to 
talk, and would perhaps have been stopping 
there still had not Kimon hunted him up, 
and fetched him to the wedding. 

A great wedding it was. A complete re- 
port of it was written by one of Socrates’ 
friends, another literary man, named Xeno- 
phon. The literary guild, including philoso- 
phers by the score, were there in full feath- 
er, and Xenophon put himself to the trouble 
of giving a complete list of these distin- 
guished persons; and to the report, as it was 
penned for the ‘‘Athens Weekly Papyrus,” 


270 


OF TALES 


he appended a fine puff of Socrates, which 
has led posterity to surmise that Socrates 
conferred a great compliment on Xanthippe 
in marrying her. Yet, what else could we 
expect of this man XenophonP The only 
other thing he ever did was to conduct a re- 
treat from a Persian battle-field. 

And now began the trials of Xanthippe, 
the wife of the literary man. Ay, it was 
not long ere the young wife discovered that, 
of all husbands in the world, the literary hus- 
band was the hardest to get along with. 
Always late at his meals, always absorbed 
in his work, always indifferent to the com- 
forts of home— what a trial this man Socrates 
must have been! Why, half the time, poor 
Xanthippe did n’t know where the next 
month’s rent was coming from; and as for 
the grocer’s and butcher’s bills— well, be- 
tween this creditor and that creditor the tor- 
mented little wife’s life fast became a burden 
to her. Had it not been for her father’s con- 
venient fruit-stall, Xanthippe must have 
starved; and, at best, fruit as a regular diet 
is hardly preferable to starvation. And 
while she scrimped and saved, and made 


271 


SECOND BOOK 


her own gowns, and patched up the chil- 
dren’s kilts as best she might, Socrates stood 
around the streets talking about the immor- 
tality of the soul and the vanity of human life! 

Many times Xanthippe pined for the 
amusements and seductive gayeties of social 
life, but she gotnone. The only society she 
knew was the prosy men-folk whom Soc- 
rates used to fetch home with him occa- 
sionally. Xanthippe grew to hate them, and 
we don’t blame her. Just imagine that 
dirty old Diogenes lolling around on the fur- 
niture, and expressing his preference for a 
tub; picking his teeth with his jack-knife, and 
smoking his wretched cob-pipe in the parlor! 

‘‘ Socrates, dear,” Xanthippe would say 
at times, ‘‘ please take me to the theatre to- 
night; I do so want to see that new tragedy 
by Euclydides.” 

But Socrates would swear by Hercules, or 
by the dog, or by some other classic object, 
that he had an engagement with the rhetori- 
cians, or with the sophists, or with Alcibiades, 
or with Crito, or with some of the rest of 
the boys — he called them philosophers, but 
we know what he meant by that. 


272 


OF TALES 


So it was toil and disappointment, disap- 
pointment and toil, from one month’s end to 
another’s; and so the years went by. 

Sometimes Xanthippe rebelled; but, with 
all her wit, how could she reason with Soc- 
rates, the most gifted and the wisest of all 
philosophers? He had a provoking way of 
practising upon her the exasperating meth- 
ods of Socratic debate,—a system he had 
invented, and for which he still is revered. 
Never excited or angry himself, he would 
ply her with questions until she found her- 
self entangled in a network of contradictions; 
and then she would be driven, willy-nilly, 
to that last argument of woman— “‘ be- 
cause.”’ Then Socrates—the brute !— would 
laugh at her, and would go out and sit on 
the front door-steps, and look henpecked. 
This is positively the meanest thing a man 
can do} 

‘‘Look at that poor man,” said the wife 
of Edippus the cobbler. ‘‘Ido believe his 
wife is cruel to him: see how sad and lone- 
some he is.” 

‘Don’t play with those Socrates children,” 
said another matron. ‘‘ Their mother must 


273 


SECOND BOOK 


be a dreadful shiftless creature to let her 
young ones run the streets in such patched- 
up clothes.” 

So up and down the street the neighbors 
gossiped—oh! it was very humiliating to 
Xanthippe. 

Meanwhile Helen lived in peace with 
Aristagoras the tinker. Theirlittle home was 
cosey and comfortable. Xanthippe used to 
go to see them sometimes, but the sight of 
their unpretentious happiness made her even 
more miserable. Meanwhile, too, Xan- 
thippe’s old beau, Gatippus, had married; 
and from Thessaly came reports of the beauti- 
ful vineyard and the many wine-presses he 
had acquired. So Xanthippe’s life became 
somewhat more than a struggle; it became 
a martyrdom. And the wrinkles came into 
Xanthippe’s face, and Xanthippe’s hair grew 
gray, and Xanthippe’s heart was filled with 
the bitterness of disappointment. And the 
years, full of grind and of poverty and of 
neglect, crept wearily on. 

Time is the grim old collector who goes 
dunning for the abused wife, and Time 
finally forced a settlement with Socrates. 


274 


OF GPALES 


Having loafed around Athens for many 
years to the neglect of his family, and having 
obtruded his views touching the immortal- 
ity of the soul upon certain folk who believed 
that the first duty of a man was to keep his 
family from starving to death, Socrates was 
apprehended on a bench-warrant, thrown 
into jail, tried by a jury, and sentenced to die. 

It was in this emergency that the great, 
the divine nobility of the wife asserted it- 
self. She had been neglected by this man, 
she had gone in rags for him, she had sac- 
rificed her beauty and her hopes and her 
pride, she had endured the pity of her neigh- 
bors, she had heard her children cry with 
hunger — ay, all for 7m, yet, when a right- 
eous fate o’ertook him, she forgot all the 
misery of his doing, and she went to him to 
be his comforter. 

Well, she could not have done otherwise, 
for she was a woman. 

Where was his philosophy now? where 
his wisdom, his logic, his witP What had 
become of his disputatious and learned as- 
sociates that not one of them stood up to 
plead for the life of Socrates now? Why, 


279 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


the first breath of adversity had blown them 
away as though they were but mist; and, 
with these false friends scattered like the 
coward chaff they were, grim old Socrates 
turned to Xanthippe for consolation. 

She burdened his ears with no reproaches, 
she spoke not of herself. Her thoughts were 
of him only, and it was to his chilled spirit 
that she alone ministered. Not even the 
horrors of the hemlock draught could drive 
her from his side, or unloose her arms from 
about his neck; and when at last the phil- 
osopher lay stiff in death, it was Xanthippe 
that bore away his corpse, and, with spices 
moistened by her tears, made it ready for 
the grave. 


276 


BAKED BEANS AND CULTURE 


HE members of the Boston Commercial 
Club are charming gentlemen. They 
are now the guests of the Chicago Commer- 
cial Club, and are being shown every atten- 
tion that our market affords. They area fine- 
looking lot, well-dressed and well-mannered, 
with just enough whiskers to be impressive 
without being imposing. 

‘‘This is a darned likely village,” said 
Seth Adams last evening. ‘‘ Everybody is 
rushin’ ’round an’ doin’ business as if his life 
depended on it. Should think they ’d git 
all tuckered out ‘fore night, but Ill be darned 
if there ain’t just as many folks on the street 
after nightfall as afore. We ’re stoppin’ at 
the Palmer tavern; an’ my chamber is up so 
all-fired high that I can count all your meet- 
in’-house steeples from the winder.” 


277 


SECOND BOOK 


Last night five or six of these Boston mer- 
chants sat around the office of the hotel, and 
discussed matters and things. Pretty soon 
they got to talking about beans; this was 
the subject which they dwelt on with evi- 
dent pleasure. 

‘‘Waal, sir,” said Ephraim Taft, a whole- 
sale dealer in maple-sugar and flavored loz- 
enges, ‘‘ you kin talk ‘bout your new-fash- 
ioned dishes an’ high-falutin vittles; but, 
when you come right down to it, there ain’t 
no better eatin’ than a dish o’ baked pork’n’ 
beans.” 

‘‘That’s so, b’gosh!” chorused the others. 

‘¢The truth o’ the matter is,’’ continued 
Mr. Taft, ‘‘that beans is good for every- 
body,— 't don’t make no difference whether 
he ’s well or sick. Why, I ’ve known a 
thousand folks —waal, mebbe not quite a 
thousand; but, —waal, now, jest to show, 
take the case of Bill Holbrook; you remem- 
ber Bill, don’t ye?” 

‘* Bill Holbrook P”’ said Mr. Ezra Eastman; 
‘‘why, of course I do! Used to live down 
to Brimfield, next to the Moses Howard 
farm.” 

278 


OF “TALES 


‘‘That ’s the man,” resumed Mr. Taft. 
“* Waal, Bill fell sick, — kinder moped round, 
tired like, for a week or two, an’ then tuck 
to his bed. His folks sent for Dock Smith, 
—ol’ Dock Smith that used to carry round 
a pair o’ leather saddlebags, — gosh, they 
don't have no sech doctors nowadays! 
Waal, the dock, he come; an’ he looked at 
Bill’s tongue, an’ felt uv his pulse, an’ said 
that Bill had typhus fever. Ol’ Dock Smith 
Was a very careful, conserv’tive man, an’ he 
never said nothin’ unless he knowed he was 
right. 

‘* Bill began to git wuss, an’ he kep’ a-git- 
tin’ wuss every day. One mornin’ ol’ Dock 
Smith sez, ‘Look a-here, Bill, I guess you ’re 
a goner; as | figger it, you can’t hol’ out till 
nightfall.’ 

‘« Bill’s mother insisted on a con-sul-tation 
bein’ held; so ol’ Dock Smith sent over for 
young Dock Brainerd. I calc’late that, next 
to ol’ Dock Smith, young Dock Brainerd was 
the smartest doctor that ever lived. 

‘‘Waal, pretty soon along come Dock 
Brainerd; an’ he an’ Dock Smith went all 
over Bill, an’ looked at his tongue, an felt uv 


#1? 


SECOND BOOK 


his pulse, an’ told him it was a gone case, 
an’ that he had gotto die. Then they went 
off into the spare chamber to hold their con- 
sul-tation. 

‘* Waal, Bill he lay there in the front room 
a-pantin’ an’ a-gaspin’ an’ a-wond’rin’ 
whether it wuz true. As he wuz thinkin’, 
up comes the girl to get a clean tablecloth out 
of the clothes-press, an’ she left the door 
ajar as she come in. Bill he gave a sniff, 
an’ his eyes grew more natural-like; he gath- 
ered together all the strength he had, an’ he 
raised himself up on one elbow, an’ sniffed 
again.” 

‘*«Sary,’ says he, ‘ wot’s that a-cookin’ ?’ 

‘**Beans,’ says she, ‘beans for dinner.’ 

‘««Sary,’ says the dyin’ man, ‘I must hev 
a plate uv them beans!’ 

‘«*Sakes alive, Mr. Holbrook!’ says she; 
‘if you wuz to eat any o’ them beans, it ’d 
kill ye!’ 

‘*<IfIT’ve got to die,’ says he, ‘I’m goin’ to 
die happy; fetch me a plate uv them beans.’ 

‘Waal, Sary, she pikes off to the doctors. 

‘**Look a-here,’ says she. ‘Mr. Holbrook 
smelt the beans cookin’, an’ he says he’s got 


280 


OF TALES 


to have a plate uv ’em. Now, what shall I 
do about it?’ 

‘«*Waal, doctor,’ says Dock Smith, ‘ what 
do you think ’bout it ? 

‘“*He’s got to die anyhow,’ says Dock 
Brainerd; ‘an’ I don’t suppose the beans ’Il 
make any diffrence.’ 

‘©¢ That ’s the way I figger it,’ says Dock 
Smith; ‘in all my practice I never knew of 
beans hurtin’ anybody.’ 

‘So Sary went down to the kitchen, an’ 
brought up a plateful of hot baked beans. 
Dock Smith raised Bill up in bed, an’ Dock 
Brainerd put a piller under the small of Bill’s 
back. Then Sary sat down by the bed, an’ 
fed them beans into Bill until Bill could n’t 
hold any more. 

‘“*«How air you feelin’ now P’ asked Dock 
Smith. 

‘*Bill did n’t say nuthin’; he jest smiled 
sort uv peaceful-like, an’ closed his eyes. 

“©«The end hes come,’ said Dock Brain- 
erd sofly. ‘Bill is dyin’.’ 

‘Then Bill murmured kind o’ far-away- 
like (as if he was dreamin’), ‘I ain’t dyin’; 
I’m dead an’ in heaven.’ 

281 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


‘Next mornin’ Bill got out uv bed, an’ 
done a big day’s work on the farm, an’ he 
hain’t hed a sick spell since. Them beans 
cured him! I tell you, sir, that beans is,” etc. 


232 


MLLE. PRUD’HOMME’S BOOK 


WasuincTon, D. C.,. Mai 3. 
M. te Repacteur: D’apres votre article dans la ‘‘ New- 
York Tribune,” copie du ‘*‘ Chicago News,” je me figure 
que les habitants de Chicago ayant grand besoin d’un 
systeme de prononciation francaise, je prends la liberte de 
vous envoyer par la malle-poste le No. 2 d’un ouvrage 
que je viens de publier; si vous desirez les autres nu- 
meros, je me ferai un plaisir de vous les envoyer aussi. 
Les emballeurs de porc ayant peu de temps a consacrer 
a letude, vu l omnipotent dollar, seront je crois en- 
chantes et reconnaissants d’un systeme par lequel ils 
pourront apprendre et comprendre la langue de la fine 
Sara, au bout de trente lecons, si surtout Monsieur le 
redacteur veut bien au bout de sa plume spirituelle leur 
en indiquer le chemin. Sur ce l’auteur du systeme a 

bien ’honneur de le saluer. 
V. PRUD’HOMME, 


This is a copy of a pleasant letter we have 
received from a distinguished Washington 
lady; we do not print the accentuations, be- 

283 


SECOND BOOK 


cause the Chicago patwor admits of none. 
A literal rendering of the letter into English 
is as follows: ‘From after your article in 
‘The New York Tribune,’ copied from ‘ The 
Chicago News,’ I to myself have figured that 
the inhabitants of Chicago having great want 
of a system of pronunciation French, | take 
the liberty to you to send by the mail-post 
the number two of a work which I come 
from to publish; if you desire the other num- 
bers, I to myself will make the pleasure of to 
you them to send also. The packers of 
porkers, having little of time to consecrate 
to the study (owing to the omnipotent dol- 
lar), will be, I believe, enchanted and grate- 
ful of a system by the which they may learn 
and understand the language of the clever 
Sara, at the end of thirty lessons, especially if 
Mister the editor will at the end of his pen 
witty to them thereof indicate the road. 
Whereupon the author of the system has 
much the honor of him to salute,”’ etc. 

We have not given Mdlle. Prud’homme’s 
oovray that conscientious study and that 
careful research which we shall devote to it 
just as soon as the tremendous spring rush 

284 


OF TALES 


in local literature eases up a little. The re- 
cent opening up of the Straits of Mackinaw, 
and the prospect of a new railroad-line into 
the very heart of the dialectic region of Indi- 
ana, have given Chicago literature so vast 
an impetus, that we find our review-table 
groaning under the weight of oovrays that 
demand our scholarly consideration. Malle. 
Prud’homme must understand (for she ap- 
pears to be exceedingly amiable) that the oov- 
rays of local littérateurs have to be reviewed 
before the oovrays of outside littérateurs can 
be taken up. This may seem hard, but it 
cannot be helped. 

Still, we will say that we appreciate, and 
are grateful for, the uncommon interest 
which Mdlle. Prud’>homme seems to take in 
the advancement of the French language and 
French literature in the midst of us. We 
have heard many of our leading savants and 
scholiasts frequently express poignant regret 
that they were unable to read ‘‘La Fem de 
Fu,” ‘‘ Mamzel Zheero Mar Fem,” and other 
noble old French classics whose fame has 
reached this modern Athens. With the ro- 
mances of Alexandre Dumas, our public is 

285 


SECOND BOOK 


thoroughly acquainted, having seen the tal- 
ented James O’Neill in Monty Cristo, and 
the beautiful and accomplished Grace Haw- 
thorne (‘‘ Only an American Girl”) in Ca- 
meel; yet our more enterprising citizens are 
keenly aware that there are other French 
works worthy of perusal — intensely inter- 
esting works, too, if the steel engravings 
therein are to be accepted as a criterion. 
We doubt not that Mdlle. Prud’homme is 
desirous of-doing Chicago a distinct good; 
and why, we ask in all seriousness, should 
this gifted and amiable French scholar not 
entertain for Chicago somewhat more than 
a friendly spirit, merely? The first settlers 
of Chicago were Frenchmen; and, likely as 
not, some of Mdlle. Prud’homme’s ancestors 
were of the number of those Spartan voy- 
ageurs who first sailed down Chicago 
River, pitched their tents on the spot where 
Kirk’s soap-factory now stands, and cap- 
tured and brought into the refining influ- 
ences of civilization Long John Wentworth, 
who at that remote period was frisking 
about on our prairies, a crude, callow boy, 
only ten years old, and only seven feet tall. 
286 


OF TALES 


Chicago was founded by Jeanne Pierre 
Renaud, one of the original two orphans 
immortalized by Claxton and Halévy’s play 
in thirteen acts of the same name. At that 
distant date it was anything but promising; 
and its prominent industries were Indians, 
musk-rats, and scenery. The only crops har- 
vested were those of malaria, twice per an- 
num,—in October and in April,— but the 
yield was sufficient to keep the community 
well provided all the year round. 


tv 
(ee) 
SI 


THE DEMAND FOR CONDENSED MUSIC 


HERE is a general belief that the mis- 

take made by the managers of the sym- 
phony concert in Central Music Hall night 
before last was in not opening the concert 
with Beethoven’s ‘‘ Eroica,”’ instead of mak- 
ing it the last number on the programme. 
We incline to the opinion, however, that, in 
putting the symphony last, the managers 
complied with the very first requirement of 
dramatic composition. This requirement is 
to the effect that you must not kill all your 
people off in the first act. 

There doubtless are a small number of 
worthy people who enjoy these old sym- 
phonies that are being dragged out of obliv- 
ion by glass-eyed Teutons from Boston. _ It 
may argue a very low grade of intellectual- 
ity, spirituality, or whatsoever you may be 

288 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


pleased to call it; but we must confess in all 
candor, that, much as we revere Mr. Bee- 
thoven’s memory, we do not fancy having 
fifty-five-minute chunks of his musty opi 
hurled at us. 

It is a marvel to us, that, in these progres- 
sive times, such leaders as Thomas and Ge- 
ricke do not respond to the popular demand 
by providing the public with symphonies in 
the nutshell. We have condensations in 
every line except music. Even literature Is 
being boiled down; because in these busy 
times, people demand a literature which they 
canread whiletheyrun. Wehave condensed 
milk, condensed meats, condensed wines, — 
condensed everything but music. What a 
joyous shout would go up if Thomas or 
Gericke would only prepare and announce 


mo rMrPHONIES FOR BUSY ‘PEOPLE! 


THE OLD MASTERS EPITOMIZED!”’ 


What Chicago demands, and what every 
enterprising and _ intelligent community 
needs, is the highest class of music on the 

289 


SECOND BOOK 


‘‘ all-the-news-for-two-cents” principle. 
Blanket-sheet concertizing must go! 

Now, here was this concert, night before 
last. Twohours and a half to five numbers! 
Suppose we figure a little on this subject: 


EXHIBIT A—-SYMPHONY. 


Total number of minutes . . . . 150 
Total number of pieces . . . 5 
Mintutes*t6 each piece’ 2°". Srp eee 


EXHIBIT B— TRADE. 


Total number of minutes . . . . 150 
Hog-slaughtering capacity per minute 3 
Totalshalling oe 20k SY ere eae 


Figures will not lie, because (as was the 
reason with George) they cannot. And 
figures prove to us, that, in the time con- 
sumed by five symphonic numbers, the 
startling number of four hundred and fifty 
hogs could be (and are daily) slaughtered, 
scraped, disembowelled, hewn, and packed. 
While forty or fifty able-bodied musicians 
are discoursing Beethoven’s rambling ‘‘ Ero- 


ica,’ it were possible to dispatch and to 


290 


OF TALES 


dress a carload of as fine beeves as ever 
hailed from Texas; and the performance of 
the ‘‘Sakuntala”’ overture might be regarded 
as a virtual loss of as much time as would 
be required for the beheading, skinning, and 
dismembering of two hundred head of sheep. 

These comparisons have probably never 
occurred to Mr. Thomas or to Mr. Gericke; 
but they are urged by the patrons of music 
in Chicago, and therefore they must needs 
be recognized by the caterers to popular 
tastes. Chicago society has been founded 
upon industry, and the culture which she 
now boasts is conserved only by the strictest 
attention to business. Nothing is more 
criminal hereabouts than a waste of time; 
and it is no wonder, then, that the créme de 
la créme of our élite lift up their hands, and 
groan, when they discover that it takes as 
long to play a classic symphony as it does 
to slaughter a carload of Missouri razor- 
backs, or an invoice of prairie-racers from 
Kansas. 


LEARNING AND LITERATURE 


R. J. N. WHITING writes us from New 

Litchfield, Ill., asking if we can tell him 

the name of the author of the poem, of which 
the following is the first stanza: — 


The weary heart is a pilgrim 
Seeking the Mecca of rest; 

Its burden is one of sorrows; 

And it wails a song as it drags along, — 
’Tis the song of a hopeless quest. 


Mr. Whiting says that this poem has been 
attributed to James Channahon, a gentleman 
who flourished about the year 1652; ‘‘ but,” 
he adds, ‘its authorship has not as yet been 
established with any degree of certainty.” 
Mr. Whiting has noticed that the ‘‘ Daily 
News” is a ‘‘ criterion on matters of literary 
interest,” and he craves the boon of our 
valuable opinion, touching this important 
question. 


N 
pe) 
bo 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


Now, although it is true that we occasion- 
ally deal with obsolete topics, it is far from 
our desire to make a practice of so doing. It 
is natural that, once in a while, when an 
editor gets hold of a catalogue of unusual 
merit, and happens to have a line of encyclo- 
pedias at hand—it is natural, we say, that, 
under such circumstances, an editor should 
take pleasure in letting his subscribers know 
how learnedly he can write about books and 
things. But an editor must be careful not 
to write above the comprehension of the 
majority of his readers. If we made a prac- 
tice of writing as learnedly as we are capable 
of writing, the proprietors of this paper 
would soon have to raise its price from two 
cents to five cents per copy. 

We say this in no spirit of egotism; it 
is simply our good fortune that we happen 
to possess extraordinary advantages. We 
have the best assortment of cyclopedias in 
seven states, and the Public Library is only 
two blocks off. It is no wonder, therefore, 
that our erudition and our research are of 
the highest order. 

Still it is not practicable that we, being 


293 


SECOND BOOK 


now on earth, should devote much time to 
delving into, and wallowing among, the 
authors of past centuries. Ignatius Don- 
nelly has been trying for the last three years 
to inveigle us into a discussion as to the 
authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. We have 
declined to participate in any public brawl 
with the Minnesota gentleman, for the simple 
reason that no good could accrue therefrom 
to anybody. If there were an international 
copyright law, there would be some use in 
trying to find out who wrote these plays, in 
order that the author might claim royalties 
on his works; or, if not the author, his heirs 
or assigns forever. 

Mr. Whiting will understand that we can- 
not take much interest in an anonymous 
hymn of the seventeenth century. It is 
enough for us to know that the hymn in 
question could not have been written by a 
Chicago man, for the very good reason that 
Chicago did not exist in the seventeenth cen- 
tury; that is to say, it existed merely as the 
haunt of the musquash and the mud-turtle, 
and not as the living, breathing metropolis 
of to-day. We have our hands full examin- 


294 


OF TALES 


ing into, and criticising, the live topics of 
current times: if we were to spend our days 
and nights in hunting up the estray poets 
and authors of the seventeenth century, how 
long would it be before the sceptre of trade 
and culture would slip irrecoverably from 
Chicago's grasp P 

Chicago has very little respect for the 
seventeenth century, because there is noth- 
ing init. The seventeenth century has done 
nothing for Chicago: she does not even 
know that this is the greatest hog-market 
in the world, and she has never had any 
commercial dealings with us in any line. If 
Chicago does n’t cut a wider swath in his- 
tory than the seventeenth century has, we 
shall be very much ashamed of her, 


295 


“DIE WALKURE” UND DER BOOMER- 
ANGELUNGEN 


HERE is a strange fascination about 
Herr Wagner’s musical drama of ‘‘ Die 
Walktre.” A great many people have sup- 
posed that Herr Sullivan’s opera of ‘‘ Das 
Pinafore’ was the most remarkable musical 
work extant, but we believe the mistake will 
become apparent as Herr Wagner's master- 
piece grows in years. 

We will not pretend to say that ‘‘Die 
Walktire” will ever be whistled about the 
streets, as the airs from ‘‘ Das Pinafore’ are 
whistled; the fact is, that no rendition of 
‘Die Walktire” can be satisfactory without 
the accompaniment of weird flashes of fire; 
and it is hardly to be expected that our youth 
will carry packages of lycopodium, and boxes 
of matches, around with them, for the sole 
purpose of giving the desired effect to any 

296 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


snatches from Herr Wagner’s work they may 
take the notion to whistle. But in the sanc- 
tity of our homes, around our firesides, in 
the front-parlor, where the melodeon or the 
newly hired piano has been set up, it is there 
that Herr Wagner’s name will be revered, 
and his masterpiece repeated o’er and o’er. 
The libretto is not above criticism; it 
strikes us that there is not enough ofit. The 
probability is that Herr Wagner ran out of 
libretto before he had got through with his 
music, and therefore had to spread out com- 
paratively few words over a vast expanse of 
music. The result is that a great part of 
the time the performers are on the stage is 
devoted to thought, the orchestra doing a 
tremendous amount of fiddling, etc., while 
the actors wander drearily around, with their 
arms folded across their pulmonary depart- 
ments, and their minds evidently absorbed 
in profound cogitation. ‘ 
As for the music, the only criticism we 
have to pass upon it is that it changes its 
subject too often; in this particular it resem- 
bles the dictionary, —in fact, we believe 
‘Die Walktire’’ can be termed the Web- 


297 


SECOND BOOK 


ster’s Unabridged of musical language. Herr 
Waener has his own way of doing business. 
He goes at it on the principle of the twelfth 
man, who holds out against the eleven other 
jurors, and finally brings them around to his 
way of thinking. 

For instance, in the midst of a pleasing 
strain in B natural, Herr Wagner has a habit 
of suddenly bringing out a small reed-instru- 
ment with a big voice (we do not know its 
name), piped in the key of F sharp. This 
small reed-instrument will not let go; it holds 
on to that F sharp like a mortgage. Fora 
brief period the rest of the instruments — 
fiddles, bassoons, viols, flutes, flageolets, 
cymbals, drums, etc. — struggle along with 
an attempt to either drown the intruder, or 
bring it around to their way of doing busi- 
ness; but it is vain. Every last one of them 
has to slide around from B natural to F sharp, 
and they do it as best they can. 

Having accomplished its incendiary and 
revolutionary purpose, the small reed-instru- 
ment subsides until it finds another chance 
to break out. It is a mugwump. 

Die Walkiren, as given us by the Dam- 

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OF -TARES 


rosch Company, are nine stout, comely young 
women, attired in costumes somewhat sim- 
ilar to the armor worn by Herr Lawrence 
Barrett’s Roman army in Herr Shakespeare’s 
play of ‘‘Der Julius Cesar.’’ Readers of 
Norse mythology may suppose that these 
weird sisters were dim, vague, shadowy 
creatures; but they are mistaken. Brun- 
hilde has the embonpoint of a dowager, and 
her arms are as robust and red as a dairy- 
maid’s. 

As for Gerhilde, Waltraute, Helmwige, 
and the rest, they are well-fed, buxom ladies, 
evidently of middle age, whose very ap- 
pearance exhales an aroma of kraut and 
garlic, which, by the way, we see by the 
libretto, was termed ‘‘ mead”’ in the days of 
Wotan and his court. These Die Walktiren 
are said to ride fiery, untamed steeds; but 
only one steed is exhibited in the drama as 
it is given at the Columbia. This steed, we 
regret to say, is a restless, noisy brute, and 
invariably has to be led off the stage by one 
of das supes, before his act concludes. 

However, no one should doubt his heroic 
nature, inasmuch as the cabalistic letters 


299 


SECOND BOOK 


‘‘U. S.” are distinctly branded upon his left 
flank. 

The Sieglinde of the piece is Fraulein 
Slach, a young lady no bigger than a min- 
ute, but with wonderful powers of endur- 
ance. To say nothing of Hunding’s perse- 
cutions, she has to shield Siegmund, elope 
with him, climb beetling precipices, ride 
Brunhilde’s fiery, untamed steed, confront 
die Walktiren, and look on her slain lover, 
and, in addition to these prodigies, partici- 
pate in a Greco-Roman wrestling-match 
with an orchestra of sixty-five pieces for 
three hours and a half. 

Yet she is equal to the emergency. Up 
to the very last she is as fresh as a daisy; 
and, after recovering from her swooning- 
spell in the second act, she braces her shoul- 
ders back, and dances all around the top 
notes of the chromatic scale with the great- 
est of ease. She is a wonderful little wo- 
man, is Fraulein Slach! What a wee bit of 
humanity, yet what a volume of voice she 
has, and what endurance! 

Down among the orchestra people sat a 
pale, sad man. His apparent lonesomeness 


300 


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interested us deeply. Wecould not imagine 
what he was there for. Every once in a 
while he would get up and leave the or- 
chestra, and dive down under the stage, and 
appear behind the scenes, where we could 
catch glimpses of him practising with a pair 
of thirty-pound dumb-bells, and testing a 
spirometer. Then he would come back and 
re-occupy his old seat among the orchestra, 
and look paler and sadder than ever. What 
strange, mysterious being was her Why 
did he inflict his pale, sad presence upon 
that galaxy of tuneful revellers P 

What a cunning master the great Herr 
Waener is! For what emergency does he 
not provide? It was half-past eleven when 
the third act began. Die Walktren had as- 
sembled in the dismal dell, — all but the den 
Walkire, Brunhilde. Wotan is approach- 
ing on appalling storm-clouds, composed of 
painted mosquito-bars and blue lights. The 
sheet-iron thunder crashes; and the orchestra 
is engaged in another mortal combat with 
that revolutionary mugwump, the small 
reed-instrument, that persists in. reforming 
the tune of the opera. 


301 


SECOND BOOK 


Then the pale, sad man produces a large 
brass horn, big enough at the business end 
for a cow to walk into. Itisa fearful, pon- 
derous instrument, manufactured especially 
for ‘‘ Die Walktre”’ at the Krupp Gun Fac- 
tory in Essen. It has an appropriate name: 
the master himself christened it the boomer- 
angelungen. It is the monarch, the Jumbo 
ofall musical instruments. The cuspidor end 
of it protrudes into one of.the proscenium- 
boxes. The fair occupants of the box are 
frightened, and timidly shrink back. 

Wotan is athand. He comes upon seven 
hundred yards of white tarletan, and four- 
teen pounds of hissing, blazing lycopodium! 
The pale, sad man at the other end of the 
boomerangelungen explains his wherefore. 
He applies his lips to the brazen monster. 
His eyeballs hang out upon his cheeks, the 
veins rise on his neck, and the lumpy cords 
and muscles stand out on his arms and 
hands. Boohoop, boohoop!—yes, six times 
boohoop does that brazen megatherium 
blare out, vivid and distinct, above all the 
other sixty instruments in the orchestra. 
Then the white tarletan clouds vanish, the 


302 


OF TALES 


blazing lycopodium goes out, and Wotan 
stands before the excited spectators. 

Then the pale, sad man lays down the 
boomerangelungen, and goes home. That 
is all he has to do; the six sonorous boo- 
hoops, announcing the presence of Wotan, 
is all that is demanded of the boomerange- 
lungen. But it is enough: it is marvellous, 
appalling, prodigious. 

Whose genius but Herr Wagner’s could 
have found employment for the boomer- 
angelungenP We hear talk of the sword 
motive, the love motive, the Walhalla mo- 
tive, and this motive, and that; but they all 
shrink into nothingness when compared 
with the motive of the boomerangelungen. 


303 


THE WORKS OF SAPPHO 


T would be hard to say whether Chicago 
| society is more deeply interested in the 
circus which is exhibiting on the lake-front 
this week, than in the compilation of Sap- 
pho’s complete works just published in Lon- 
don, and but this week given to the trade in 
Chicago. As we understand it, Sappho and 
the circus had their beginning about the 
same time: if any thing, the origin of the 
circus antedated Sappho’s birth some years, 
and has achieved the more wide-spread pop- 
ularity. 

In the volume now before us, we learn 
that Sappho lived in the seventh century be- 
fore Christ, and that she was at the zenith 
of her fame at the time when Tarquinius 
Priscus was king of Rome, and Nebuchad- 
nezzar was subsisting on ahay-diet. It ap- 


304 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


pears that, despite her wisdom, this talented 
lady did not know who her father was; 
seventeen hundred years after her demise, 
one Suidas claimed to have discovered that 
there were seven of her father; but Herodo- 
tus gives the name of the gentleman most 
justly suspected as Scamandronymus. Be 
this as it may, Sappho married a rich man, 
and subsequently fell in love with a dude who 
cared nothing for her; whereupon the unfor- 
tunate woman, without waiting to compile 
her writings, and without even indicating 
whom she preferred for her literary executor, 
committed suicide by hurling herself from a 
high precipice into the sea. Sappho was an 
exceedingly handsome person, as we see by 
the engraving which serves as the frontis- 
piece of the work before us. This engrav- 
ing, as we understand, was made from a 
portrait painted from life by a contempo- 
raneous old Grecian artist, one Alma Tadema. 

Still, we could not help wondering, as we 
saw the magnificent pageant of Forepaugh’s 
circus sweep down our majestic boulevards 
and superb thoroughfares yesterday; as we 
witnessed this imposing spectacle, we say, 


305 


SECOND BOOK 


we could not help wondering how many 
people in all the vast crowds of spectators 
knew that there ever was such a poetess as 
Sappho, or how many, knowing that there 
was such a party, have ever read her works. 
It has been nearly a year since a circus came 
to town; and in that time public taste has 
been elevated to a degree by theatrical and 
operatic performers, such as Sara Bernhardt, 
Emma Abbott, @frray and Murphy, Adéle 
Patti, George C*#Miln, Helena Modjeska, 
Fanny Davenport, and Denman Thompson. 

Of course, therefore, our public has come 
to be able to appreciate with a nicer dis- 
crimination and a finer zest the intellectual 
morceaux and the refined tidbits which Mr. 
Forepaugh’s unparalleled aggregation offers. 
This was apparent in the vast numbers and 
in the unbridled enthusiasm of our best citi- 
zens gathered upon the housetops and at the 
street-corners along the line of the circus 
procession. So magnificent a display of 
silks, satins, and diamonds has seldom been 
seen: it truly seemed as if the fashion and 
wealth of our city were trying to vie with 
the splendors of the glittering circus pageant. 

3006 


OF TALES 


In honor of the event, many of the stores, 
public buildings, and private dwellings dis- 
played banners, mottoes, and congratulatory 
garlands. From the balcony of the palatial 
edifice occupied by one of our leading liter- 
ary clubs was suspended a large banner of 
pink silk, upon which appeared the word 
‘“Welcome” in white; while beneath, upon 
a scroll, was an appropriate couplet from 
one of Robert Browning’s poems. 

When we asked one of the members of 
this club why the club made such a fuss over 
the circus, he looked very much astonished; 
and he answered, ‘‘ Well, why note Old 
Forepaugh is worth over a million dollars, 
and he always sends us complimentaries 
whenever he comes to town!” 

We asked this same gentleman if he had 
read the new edition of Sappho’s poems. 
We had a good deal of confidence in his 
literary judgment and taste, because he is 
our leading linseed-oil dealer; and no man 
in the West is possessed of more enterprise 
and sand than he. 

‘My daughter brought homea copy of the 
book Saturday,” said he, ‘‘and I looked 


307 


SECOND BOOK 


through it yesterday. Sappho may suit 
some cranks; but as for me, give me Ella 
Wheeler or Will Carleton. I love good poe- 
try: I’ve got the finest-bound copy of 
Shakespeare in Illinois, and my edition of 
Coleridge will knock the socks off any book 
in the country. My wife has painted all the 
Doray illustrations of the Ancient Marine, 
and I would n’t swap that book for the cost- 
liest Mysonyay in all Paris! 

‘‘T can’t see where the poetry comes in,”’ 
he went onto say. ‘‘So far as I can make 
out, this man Sapolio—I mean Sappho— 
never did any sustained or consecutive work. 
His poems read to me a good deal like a 
diary. Some of them consist of one line 
only, and quite a number have only three 
words. Now, I will repeat five entire poems 
taken from this fool-book: I learned them on 
purpose to repeat at the club. Here is the 
first, — 


‘‘ Me just now the golden-sandalled Dawn. 


‘‘That ’s all there is to it. Here’s the 
second: 
‘‘] yearn and seek. 


308 


OF TALES 
‘A third is complete in — 


‘Much whiter than an egg; 


and the fourth is,— 


‘* Stir not the shingle, 


which, I take it, was one of Sapphire’s ju- 
venile poems addressed to his mother. The 
fifth poem is simply, — 


‘“ And thou thyself, Calliope, 


which, by the way, reminds me that Fore- 
paugh’s calliope got smashed up in a rail- 
road accident night before last, — a circum- 
stance deeply to be regretted, since there is 
no instrument calculated to appeal more di- 
rectly to one versed in mythological lore, or 
more likely to awaken a train of pleasing 
associations, than the steam-calliope.”’ 

A South-Side packer, who has the largest 
library in the city, told us that he had not 
seen Sappho’s works yet, but that he in- 
tended to read them at an early date. ‘‘I’ve 
got so sick of Howells and James,” said he, 


39} 


SECOND BOOK 


‘‘that I’m darned glad to hear that some 
new fellow has come to the front.” 

Another prominent social light (a brewer) 
said that he had bought a ‘‘ Sappho,” and 
was having it bound in morocco, with tur- 
key-red trimmings. ‘‘I do enjoy a hand- 
some book,” said he. ‘‘One of the most 
valuable volumes in my library I bought of 
a leading candy-manufacturer in this city. 
It is the original libretto and score of the 
‘Songs of Solomon,’ bound in the tanned 
pelt of the fatted calf that was killed when 
the prodigal son came home.” 

‘‘T have simply glanced through the Sap- 
pho book,” said another distinguished rep- 
resentative of local culture; ‘‘ and what sur- 
prised me, was the pains that has been taken 
in getting up the affair. Why, do you 
know, the editor has gone to the trouble of 
going through the book, and translating 
every darned poem into Greek! Of course, 
this strikes us business-men of Chicago as a 
queer bit of pedantry.” 

The scholarly and courtly editor of the 
‘‘Weekly Lard Journal and Literary Compan- 
ion,’’ Professor A. J. Lyvely, criticised Sap- 

310 


OF TALES 


pho very freely as he stood at the corner of 
Clark and Madison Streets, waiting for the 
superb gold chariot drawn by twenty milk- 
white steeds, and containing fifty musicians, 
to come along. ‘‘Just because she lived in 
the dark ages,” said he, ‘‘she is cracked up 
for a great poet; but she will never be as 
popular with the masses of Western readers 
as Ella Wheeler and Marion Harland are. 
All of her works that remain to us area few 
fragments, and they are chestnuts; for they 
have been printed within the last ten years 
in the books of a great many poets I could 
name, and | have read them. We know 
very little of Sappho’s life. If she had 
amounted to much, we would not be in such 
ignorance of her doings. The probability 
is that she was a society or fashion editor 
on one of the daily papers of her time,—a 
sort of Clara-Belle woman, whose naughti- 
ness was mistaken for a species of intellect- 
ual brilliancy. Sappho was a gamey old 
girl, you know. Her life must have been a 
poem of passion, if there is any truth in the 
testimony of the authorities who wrote about 
her several centuries after her death. In 


311 


SECOND BOOK 


fact, these verses of hers that are left indi- 
cate that she was addicted to late suppers, 
to loose morning-gowns, to perfumed sta- 
tionery, and to hysterics. It is ten to one 
that she wore flaming bonnets and striking 
dresses; that she talked loud at the theatres 
and in public generally; and that she chewed 
gum, and smoked cigarettes, when she went 
to the races. If that woman had lived in 
Chicago, she would have been tabooed.” 

The amiable gentleman who reads man- 
uscripts for Rand, McNally & Co. says that 
Sappho’s manuscripts were submitted to him 
a year ago. ‘‘I looked them over, and sat- 
isfied myself that there was nothing in them; 
and I told the author so. He seemed in- 
clined to dispute me, but I told him I reck- 
oned I understood pretty well what would 
sell in our literary circles and on our rail- 
road-trains.”’ 

But while there was a pretty general dis- 
position to criticise Sappho, there was only 
one opinion as to the circus-parade; and 
that was complimentary. For the nonce, 
we may say, the cares and vexations of 
business, of literature, of art, and of science, 


312 


OP TALES 


were put aside; and our populace abandoned 
itself to a hearty enjoyment of the brilliant 
pageant which appealed to the higher in- 
stincts. And, as the cage containing the 
lions rolled by, the shouts of the enthusias- 
tic spectators swelled above the guttural 
roars of the infuriate monarchs of the desert. 
Men waved their hats, and ladies fluttered 
their handkerchiefs. Altogether, the scene 
was So exciting as to be equalled only by the 
rapturous ovation which was_ tendered 
Mdlle. Hortense de Vere, queen of the air, 
when that sylph-like lady came out into the 
arena of Forepaugh’s great circus-tent last 
evening, and poised herself upon one tiny 
toe on the back of an untamed and foaming 
Arabian barb that dashed round and round 
the sawdust ring. Talk about your Sapphos 
and your poetry! Would Chicago hesitate 
a moment in choosing between Sappho and 
Mdlle. Hortense de Vere, queen of the air? 
And what rhythm—be it Sapphic, or cho- 
riambic, or Ionic a minore—is to be com- 
pared with the symphonic poetry of ashapely 
female balanced upon one delicate toe on 
the bristling back of a fiery, untamed pal- 


313 


SECOND BOOK OF TALES 


frey that whoops round and round to the 
music of the band, the plaudits of the pub- 
lic, and the still, small voice of the dyspeptic 
gent announcing a minstrel show ‘‘ under 
this canvas after the performance, which is 
not yet half completed P”’ 

If it makes us proud to go into our book- 
stores, and see thousands upon thousands 
of tomes waiting for customers; if our bos- 
oms swell with delight to see the quiet and 
palatial homes of our cultured society over- 
flowing with the mostexpensive wall-papers 
and the costliest articles of virtue; if we take 
an ineffable enjoyment in the thousand in- 
dications of a growing refinement in the 
midst of us,—vaster still must be the pride, 
the rapture, we feel when we behold our in- 
tellect and our culture paying the tribute of 
adoration to the circus. Viewing these en- 
livening scenes, why may we not cry in the 
words of Sappho, ‘‘ Wealth without thee, 
Worth, is a shameless creature; but the mix- 
ture of both is the height of happiness ”’ P 





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